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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 392 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 392 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 1 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 283 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 1 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 306 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. See https://www.drupal.org/node/2966725', 'exception', 'Drupal\Core\Render\Element\RenderCallbackInterface') (Line: 797) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doCallback('#pre_render', Array, Array) (Line: 386) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 106) __TwigTemplate_4039b6d648e4a30fc59604b38849a688->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array, Array) (Line: 46) __TwigTemplate_d1494d795b4bd5366283e85f3e7729dc->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array, Array) (Line: 43) __TwigTemplate_253b62141ad73ee07345b0067cf59829->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/contrib/classy/templates/field/field--text-with-summary.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('field', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 231) __TwigTemplate_d0a4e06ec4cdc862487a9e59e7ee55e6->block_node_content(Array, Array) (Line: 171) Twig\Template->displayBlock('node_content', Array, Array) (Line: 91) __TwigTemplate_fb45c12c057c90d6dad87acc3f8af627->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array, Array) (Line: 51) __TwigTemplate_d0a4e06ec4cdc862487a9e59e7ee55e6->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/content/node--teaser.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('node', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 60) __TwigTemplate_b5820ae2fc9ac809d8bb920432eaa798->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/contrib/classy/templates/views/views-view-unformatted.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view_unformatted', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 129) __TwigTemplate_c1babb60e112ad993125dc5af5a5b779->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/views/views-view--site-search--page-1.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view__site_search__page_1', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 2 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 283 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 2 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 306 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 4 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 306 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 5 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 283 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. See https://www.drupal.org/node/2966725', 'exception', 'Drupal\Core\Render\Element\RenderCallbackInterface') (Line: 797) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doCallback('#pre_render', Array, Array) (Line: 386) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 106) __TwigTemplate_4039b6d648e4a30fc59604b38849a688->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array, Array) (Line: 46) __TwigTemplate_d1494d795b4bd5366283e85f3e7729dc->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array, Array) (Line: 43) __TwigTemplate_253b62141ad73ee07345b0067cf59829->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/contrib/classy/templates/field/field--text-with-summary.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('field', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 231) __TwigTemplate_d0a4e06ec4cdc862487a9e59e7ee55e6->block_node_content(Array, Array) (Line: 171) Twig\Template->displayBlock('node_content', Array, Array) (Line: 91) __TwigTemplate_fb45c12c057c90d6dad87acc3f8af627->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array, Array) (Line: 51) __TwigTemplate_d0a4e06ec4cdc862487a9e59e7ee55e6->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/content/node--teaser.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('node', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 60) __TwigTemplate_b5820ae2fc9ac809d8bb920432eaa798->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/contrib/classy/templates/views/views-view-unformatted.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view_unformatted', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 129) __TwigTemplate_c1babb60e112ad993125dc5af5a5b779->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/views/views-view--site-search--page-1.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view__site_search__page_1', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 5 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 306 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 6 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 283 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('In the January 1920 <em>Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design,</em> RISD Museum director L. Earle Rowe drew attention to the recent acquisition of a colonial American portrait by the British-trained painter L. Earle Rowe, “Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr. by Joseph Blackburn.” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, January 1920, VIII, 2–4. Ill. p. 1.. The elegant likeness of young Theodore Atkinson, Jr. (fig. 1), was sold to the museum by a descendant of Atkinson’s mother, Hannah, who with her husband, Theodore Sr., was painted by Blackburn in 1760 (figs. 2 and 3). The parents’ selection of the eminent Blackburn suited their station in life: Hannah was the sister of Benning Wentworth, governor of the province of New Hampshire from 1741 until 1767. Theodore Atkinson, Sr., served as president of the Council of New Hampshire, secretary and chief justice of the colony, and delegate to the Albany Congress. In the 1750s, Blackburn had brought English Rococo style to the sober tradition of American portraiture, and his emphasis on depicting luxurious textiles reinforced his popularity with patrons in Bermuda, Newport, Boston, and Portland, New Hampshire, where the Atkinson family flourished. In contrast to their refined and sober depictions, their son’s livelier image seemed to celebrate the energy and promise of the next generation. Vibrantly colored and meticulously drawn, it represented the twenty-one-year-old Harvard College graduate as if poised to assume his place in the world. The portrait became known as one of Blackburn’s most distinguished works and in 1911 was among a select group of paintings chosen to represent the artist in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Colonial Portraits: November 6 To December 31, 1911 (1911), no. 2, Theodore Atkinson, Jr., by Joseph B. Blackburn. In 1762, young Atkinson married his pretty young cousin, Frances Deering Wentworth, and subsequently commissioned John Singleton Copley to paint her portrait (Fig. 4). The newlyweds settled in Portsmouth, where Atkinson drew income from land grants and followed a preordained career path in which he served as secretary of the province of New Hampshire, member of His Majesty’s council, and collector of customs. His youthful momentum was tragically cut short in 1769 when he died of consumption at the age of thirty-two. After a notoriously short period of mourning, Frances married John Wentworth, a cousin with strong Tory sympathies, and fled with him to England before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. By the early twentieth century, the four Atkinson portraits had been separated from one another. Around 1918–1919, the portraits of the colonel and his wife found homes in museums in Worcester, Massachusetts, and Cleveland, Ohio, and Theodore Jr.’s came to Rhode Island. The image of Frances Deering Atkinson had left the fold earlier, and in 1876 entered the New York Public Library by way of the James Lenox collection. (Sold by the library in 2005, her portrait now resides at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas.) When the younger couple’s likenesses were reunited at the 1911 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no one seemed to have remarked that the strong color and crisp draftsmanship that characterized the wife’s portrait by Copley were also evident in Theodore’s, or noticed their shared distinctive contrast to the muted tones and simplified construction of the other Blackburn portraits nearby. In New York, the <em>Portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr.,</em> continued to signal the older artist’s best and most accomplished work, a position that was reinforced when it was featured as the frontispiece of Lawrence Park’s 1923 monograph <em>Joseph Blackburn: A Colonial Portrait Painter</em>. Art historians are trained to determine the authenticity of works of art by studying their style, construction, and physical appearances, and by documenting their living history and chain of ownership. There was no doubt when the portrait of Theodore Atkinson, Jr., was acquired by RISD that it had descended in an unbroken family succession along with Blackburn’s signed portraits of his parents. Reputable scholars had published it as Blackburn’s work, and although there was no evidence of a signature, this was not uncommon in colonial portraiture. And yet, Earle Rowe was careful to note that the unknowns associated with relatively recent colonial art history were not unlike the challenges faced by Renaissance scholars. He mentioned a lack of documentary evidence about the “shadowy personalities and period of activity” of American artists, admitting that at present “the greatest mystery and fascination surrounds Blackburn, whose work had such a great influence on Copley,” and whose paintings had frequently been ascribed to the younger artist. In this case, Rowe had good reason to be cautious, as the long existence of the younger Atkinson portrait among the Blackburn portraits may have led to attribution by association. Theodore Jr.’s premature death, his wife’s remarriage, and the earlier dispersion of her portrait may have obscured obvious clues to the artist’s identity, for in fact, the 1757–1758 commission for his portrait was executed by Blackburn’s brilliant young follower from Boston: the twenty-year-old John Singleton Copley. The confusion over authorship endured until 1943, when in conjunction with the exhibition <em>New England Painting, 1700</em>–<em>1775</em>, held at the Worcester Art Museum, the American art historian and dealer William Sawitzky argued that the “sculptural form, solidity, linear precision and marmoreal flesh tones are closer to Copley than to Blackburn’s weaker formal sense and greater reliance on chromatic and tonal quality, even allowing for the influence that the precocious Copley exercised on his older English-trained colleague.”“News and Comments,” Magazine of Art 36 (Mar. 1943), p. 115. According to the March 1943 “News and Comments” column of <em>Magazine of Art</em>, Anne Allison, Charles K. Bolton, Louisa Dresser, Henry Wilder Foote, John Hill Morgan, Mrs. Haven Parker, and other experts in attendance agreed, and the portrait was assigned to Copley. Although the circumstances of Copley’s introduction to the Atkinsons are not known, they may have seen his portraits of the Reverend Arthur Browne’s family in Portsmouth, or become aware of the portraits Copley had painted of prominent Bostonians in poses identical to the one later chosen for their son.Janet L. Comey in Carrie Rebora and Paul Staiti, et al., John Singleton Copley in America (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, distributed by Harry N. Abrams, 1995), pp. 178–81, comprehensively analyzed Atkinson’s portrait and identified the similarly posed portraits of Joshua Winslow, 1755 (Santa Barbara Museum of Art) and William Brattle, 1756 (Harvard University Art Museums). She also noted the Atkinsons’ connections to the family of Reverend Arthur Browne of Queen’s Chapel, Copley’s earlier patrons in Portsmouth. Although barely twenty when he painted young Atkinson, Copley demonstrated immense skills in drawing and color, and astutely mined mezzotint portraits of English aristocrats for aspects of pose, setting, and costume.See Trevor Fairbrother, “John Singleton Copley’s Use of British Mezzotints for His American Portraits: A Reappraisal Prompted by New Discoveries,” Arts 55 (Mar. 1981), pp. 122–30. He had learned the techniques of painting by studying the works of other artists who practiced in Boston, including its leading portraitist, John Smibert, but his most dramatic advances took place around 1755 with the arrival in Boston of the English painter Blackburn. By 1758 he had perfected the most distinctive aspects of Blackburn’s manner, including the depiction of fine clothing and mastery of narrative-enhancing poses. Applying these skills to Atkinson’s portrait, he seamlessly incorporated the scion’s aristocratic appearance into the fiction of a young English lord striding forward to survey his country estate. Atkinson’s slender figure virtually inhabited the aggrandizing <em>contrapposto</em> stance with the grace of a dancer. His costume was likely virtual as well, as “invented dress” based on a variety of continental prototypes was common for both male and female portraits in the eighteenth century.Copley’s depiction of both male and female costume is discussed in Aileen Ribeiro‘s “‘The Whole Art of Dress’: Costume in the Work of John Singleton Copley,” in Rebora and Staiti, et al., pp. 103–15. Copley chose to dress Atkinson in a muted salmon coat with deep boot cuffs and matching tight breeches, lavishing attention on his padded silk waistcoat. In a device lifted from contemporary British portraiture, Copley tucked Atkinson’s left hand into his trouser pocket, effectively emphasizing the vest’s silver embroidery and flaunting both its considerable expense and his own genius at rendering sumptuous textiles. Absent from this staging are the classical ruins or attributes of learning so often present in Grand Tour portraits of young British aristocrats. Atkinson’s landscape is pristine and has yet to be imbued with his accomplishments. Instead, evident and intertwined in the Copley portrait of Atkinson are the rising careers of two promising young American men. The combined effects of likeness, costume, and verdant acreage were enough to signal Atkinson’s distinguished pedigree and brilliant future. At the same time, they trumpeted Copley’s own precocious arrival, and his ability to convey personality and social status with skills that surpassed those of any other painter in the colonies, including the much-admired Joseph Blackburn, who unintentionally in the twentieth century wore the laurels of his youthful follower’s acclaim. <strong>Maureen C. O’Brien</strong> <strong>Curator of Painting and Sculpture</strong> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 389 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 392 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/contrib/classy/templates/field/field--text-with-summary.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('field', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 231) __TwigTemplate_d0a4e06ec4cdc862487a9e59e7ee55e6->block_node_content(Array, Array) (Line: 171) Twig\Template->displayBlock('node_content', Array, Array) (Line: 91) __TwigTemplate_fb45c12c057c90d6dad87acc3f8af627->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array, Array) (Line: 51) __TwigTemplate_d0a4e06ec4cdc862487a9e59e7ee55e6->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/content/node--teaser.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('node', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 60) __TwigTemplate_b5820ae2fc9ac809d8bb920432eaa798->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/contrib/classy/templates/views/views-view-unformatted.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view_unformatted', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 129) __TwigTemplate_c1babb60e112ad993125dc5af5a5b779->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/views/views-view--site-search--page-1.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view__site_search__page_1', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 392 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 392 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/content/node--teaser.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('node', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 60) __TwigTemplate_b5820ae2fc9ac809d8bb920432eaa798->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/contrib/classy/templates/views/views-view-unformatted.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) 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Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/contrib/classy/templates/field/field--text-with-summary.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('field', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 231) __TwigTemplate_d0a4e06ec4cdc862487a9e59e7ee55e6->block_node_content(Array, Array) (Line: 171) Twig\Template->displayBlock('node_content', Array, Array) (Line: 91) __TwigTemplate_fb45c12c057c90d6dad87acc3f8af627->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array, Array) (Line: 51) __TwigTemplate_d0a4e06ec4cdc862487a9e59e7ee55e6->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/content/node--teaser.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('node', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 60) __TwigTemplate_b5820ae2fc9ac809d8bb920432eaa798->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/contrib/classy/templates/views/views-view-unformatted.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view_unformatted', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 129) __TwigTemplate_c1babb60e112ad993125dc5af5a5b779->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/views/views-view--site-search--page-1.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view__site_search__page_1', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 392 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/content/node--teaser.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('node', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 60) __TwigTemplate_b5820ae2fc9ac809d8bb920432eaa798->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/contrib/classy/templates/views/views-view-unformatted.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) 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Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 392 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/contrib/classy/templates/field/field--text-with-summary.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('field', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 231) __TwigTemplate_d0a4e06ec4cdc862487a9e59e7ee55e6->block_node_content(Array, Array) (Line: 171) Twig\Template->displayBlock('node_content', Array, Array) (Line: 91) __TwigTemplate_fb45c12c057c90d6dad87acc3f8af627->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array, Array) (Line: 51) __TwigTemplate_d0a4e06ec4cdc862487a9e59e7ee55e6->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/content/node--teaser.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('node', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 60) __TwigTemplate_b5820ae2fc9ac809d8bb920432eaa798->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/contrib/classy/templates/views/views-view-unformatted.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view_unformatted', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 129) __TwigTemplate_c1babb60e112ad993125dc5af5a5b779->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/views/views-view--site-search--page-1.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view__site_search__page_1', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 1 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 283 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/content/node--teaser.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('node', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 60) __TwigTemplate_b5820ae2fc9ac809d8bb920432eaa798->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/contrib/classy/templates/views/views-view-unformatted.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 1 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 306 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view_unformatted', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 129) __TwigTemplate_c1babb60e112ad993125dc5af5a5b779->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/views/views-view--site-search--page-1.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view__site_search__page_1', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 2 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 306 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. See https://www.drupal.org/node/2966725', 'exception', 'Drupal\Core\Render\Element\RenderCallbackInterface') (Line: 797) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doCallback('#pre_render', Array, Array) (Line: 386) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 106) __TwigTemplate_4039b6d648e4a30fc59604b38849a688->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array, Array) (Line: 46) __TwigTemplate_d1494d795b4bd5366283e85f3e7729dc->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array, Array) (Line: 43) __TwigTemplate_253b62141ad73ee07345b0067cf59829->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/contrib/classy/templates/field/field--text-with-summary.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('field', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 231) __TwigTemplate_d0a4e06ec4cdc862487a9e59e7ee55e6->block_node_content(Array, Array) (Line: 171) Twig\Template->displayBlock('node_content', Array, Array) (Line: 91) __TwigTemplate_fb45c12c057c90d6dad87acc3f8af627->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array, Array) (Line: 51) __TwigTemplate_d0a4e06ec4cdc862487a9e59e7ee55e6->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/content/node--teaser.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('node', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 60) __TwigTemplate_b5820ae2fc9ac809d8bb920432eaa798->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/contrib/classy/templates/views/views-view-unformatted.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view_unformatted', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 129) __TwigTemplate_c1babb60e112ad993125dc5af5a5b779->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/views/views-view--site-search--page-1.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view__site_search__page_1', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 3 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 283 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 3 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 306 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/content/node--teaser.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('node', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 60) __TwigTemplate_b5820ae2fc9ac809d8bb920432eaa798->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/contrib/classy/templates/views/views-view-unformatted.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view_unformatted', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 129) __TwigTemplate_c1babb60e112ad993125dc5af5a5b779->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/views/views-view--site-search--page-1.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view__site_search__page_1', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 4 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 283 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. See https://www.drupal.org/node/2966725', 'exception', 'Drupal\Core\Render\Element\RenderCallbackInterface') (Line: 797) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doCallback('#pre_render', Array, Array) (Line: 386) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 106) __TwigTemplate_4039b6d648e4a30fc59604b38849a688->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array, Array) (Line: 46) __TwigTemplate_d1494d795b4bd5366283e85f3e7729dc->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array, Array) (Line: 43) __TwigTemplate_253b62141ad73ee07345b0067cf59829->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/contrib/classy/templates/field/field--text-with-summary.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('field', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 231) __TwigTemplate_d0a4e06ec4cdc862487a9e59e7ee55e6->block_node_content(Array, Array) (Line: 171) Twig\Template->displayBlock('node_content', Array, Array) (Line: 91) __TwigTemplate_fb45c12c057c90d6dad87acc3f8af627->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array, Array) (Line: 51) __TwigTemplate_d0a4e06ec4cdc862487a9e59e7ee55e6->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/content/node--teaser.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('node', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 60) __TwigTemplate_b5820ae2fc9ac809d8bb920432eaa798->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/contrib/classy/templates/views/views-view-unformatted.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view_unformatted', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 129) __TwigTemplate_c1babb60e112ad993125dc5af5a5b779->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/views/views-view--site-search--page-1.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view__site_search__page_1', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 4 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 306 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 5 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 283 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 5 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 306 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/content/node--teaser.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('node', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 60) __TwigTemplate_b5820ae2fc9ac809d8bb920432eaa798->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/contrib/classy/templates/views/views-view-unformatted.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view_unformatted', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 129) __TwigTemplate_c1babb60e112ad993125dc5af5a5b779->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/views/views-view--site-search--page-1.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view__site_search__page_1', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 6 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 283 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Eastman Johnson was raised in Maine in a family of eight children, and as a young teenager was employed as a dry goods clerk. When he was about 15, he traveled to Boston and worked in the lithography shop of J. H. Bufford, where he was exposed to techniques that improved his boyhood aptitude for drawing. When Johnson returned to Maine a few years later, he was proficient at making portraits from life in pencil, crayon, charcoal, and chalk.Johnson’s earliest known portraits are charcoal and chalk drawings, Head of a Woman and Head of a Man, dated July 1844, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and illustrated in Patricia Hills, Eastman Johnson, Whitney Museum of American Art, 1972, p. 6. With the intention of assembling a portfolio of portraits of eminent Americans, Johnson moved to Washington, D.C., around 1845. There he set up a studio in a Senate committee room, where he depicted such notable citizens as John Quincy Adams, Dolley Madison, and Daniel Webster. When Johnson returned to Boston in 1846, he had added pastels to his technical repertoire and attracted new sitters among members of the intellectual elite, but his career advancement was stalled by limited opportunities to study painting in Boston. In 1849 he and his friend George H. Hall departed to seek instruction in Düsseldorf, where Johnson studied anatomical drawing and portrait painting in oils. By 1851, he was active in the atelier of Emanuel Leutze, where he advanced his skills at narrative painting while working on a replica of that artist’s <em><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417">Washington Crossing the Delaware</a></em>.This painting, completed in 1851, is in the collection of Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/11417 As the original version had been destroyed a studio fire the previous year, this second large version of this painting was then underway. Johnson worked with Leutze on a smaller replica, oil on canvas, 40 ½ x 68 in., now part of the Manoogian Collection.He remained abroad for five more years, settling next in The Hague and developing a deep admiration for Rembrandt. His final instructional stage before returning to the United States in 1856 was in the Paris studio of Thomas Couture.Couture promoted painterly technique that preserved the liveliness of the original sketch. Edouard Manet studied with Couture, as did the Boston painter William Morris Hunt. Fortified by Düsseldorf’s narrative tradition, by study of the great collections of Europe, and by exposure to the techniques of one of the most advanced painting studios in Paris, Johnson established himself as a leading American painter. In the late 1850s he set up a studio in New York and was elected to the National Academy of Design. Over the next two decades his career flourished, distinguished by themes ranging from <em>Negro Life at the South In particular, see Johnson’s Negro Life at the South (1859, New-York Historical Society). Originally exhibited at the National Academy of Design in New York under this title, the painting was later known as Old Kentucky Home, after Stephen Foster’s popular song.</em> to studies of maple-sugar camps in MaineJohnson returned to the maple-sugar camps in Fryeburg, Maine, in the spring months of the early 1860s. The RISD Museum’s Sugaring Off, ca. 1861–1866 (45.050), is a large unfinished version of activities at a maple-sugar camp. See Patricia C. F. Mandel’s discussion of this painting in RISD Museum’s Selection VII: American Paintings from the Museum’s Collection, 1800-1930, 1977, 158–63; and in Brian T. Allen, Sugaring Off: The Maple Sugar Paintings of Eastman Johnson, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Museum, 2004. and cranberry harvest scenes in Massachusetts. In 1870, following the birth of his only child, Ethel, Johnson’s family began to vacation on the island of Nantucket. Here and in Kennebunkport, Maine, where his sister’s family summered, he was provided with ready models for themes of childhood.This includes paintings such as Bo-Peep (The Peep), 1872, Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/u/0/asset-viewer/bo-peep/AwEeJtUNL6Bd1w?hl=en. A gathering of children on the beams of a hayloft is depicted in Barn Swallows, 1878, Philadelphia Museum of Art, one of several works he painted at this time that show children playing in a hayloft. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/54178.html In <em>Child in Bed</em>, Johnson’s reputation as the “American Rembrandt” may be witnessed in his use of chiaroscuro, the masterful rendering of the face, and the softening of details of the figure and setting. Concentrating on the child’s head, he sculpts the eyes and chin with deep shadows and relies on the brightness of the paper to emphasize the nose and brow. The effect of lamplight is suggested by the color of the paper as revealed through black veils of charcoal. By altering the pressure and direction of his medium, scratching through the pigment, and working the texture of the sheet, he coaxes surfaces as varied as cotton bedding and solid wooden furniture. The bed’s simple footboard and the ladder-back chair suggest the interior of a country house, such as those occupied by the Johnson family in either Nantucket or Kennebunkport. With the exception of the basket of clothes on the chair, no attempt is made to introduce picturesque detail or urge a sentimental response. For an artist whose narrative paintings of children had inspired great public and critical enthusiasm, <em>Child in Bed</em>is an intimate and contemplative digression that affirms Johnson’s keen eye for domestic realism. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 389 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 392 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 392 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 392 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 1 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 283 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 2 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 283 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 2 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 306 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 3 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 283 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 4 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 306 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 5 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 283 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 6 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 283 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 6 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 306 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('William Stanley Haseltine first studied painting in Philadelphia with the German expatriate Paul Weber, who encouraged him to continue his training in Düsseldorf.Haseltine attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years, then transferred to Harvard College in 1852. Upon graduation from Harvard, he wrote: “I have always entertained a great longing for any thing connected with the fine arts. I have already painted several original pictures & intend going to Düsseldorf to prosecute the study of art as a profession.” Harvard College, Class Book, 13 July 1854, p. 137, cited by Marc Simpson in Marc Simpson, Andrea Henderson, and Sally Mills, Expressions of Place: The Art of William Stanley Haseltine, San Francisco, The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, 1992, p. 154. See also John Wilmerding’s essay in William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): Drawings of a Painter. New York: Davis & Langdale Company, Inc., in association with Ben Ali Haggin, Inc., 1983. The city’s fine arts academy was then a dominant European center for the study of landscape and genre painting, and had already attracted the American painters Emanuel Leutze, Worthington Whittredge, and Albert Bierstadt. The popularity of the academy was reinforced by the success in New York of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which fostered the appreciation of a style based on highly proficient drawing and the literal study of natural forms.For studies of American artists in Düsseldorf, see Donelson F. Hoopes, The Düsseldorf Academy and the Americans: An Exhibition of Watercolors and Drawings, Atlanta: High Museum of Art, 1972; Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Wolf von Kalnein (introduction), Rolf Andree, and Ute Ricke-Immel, The Hudson and the Rhine; Die Amerikanische Malerkolonie in Düsseldorf im 19. Jahrhundert, catalogue of an exhibition held at Kunsthalle Bielefeld May 23–June 20, 1976; American Artists in Düsseldorf, 1840–1865, Framingham: Danforth Museum, 1982; and Michael Quick, American Expatriate Painters of the Late Nineteenth Century, Dayton, OH: Dayton Art Institute, 1976. When Haseltine arrived in Düsseldorf in 1855, he did not enroll at the academy but instead sought training in the studio of the city’s leading landscape painter, Andreas AchenbachAlthough “Chronology of William Stanley Haseltine’s Life and Work” in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 156, notes that there are no official records of Haseltine’s presence in Achenbach’s studio, Haseltine’s daughter, Helen Haseltine Plowden, wrote that he at first studied in Düsseldorf with Paul Weber, who had returned to Germany, and then was taken into Achenbach’s studio “where work started in dead earnest” (Helen Haseltine Plowden, William Stanley Haseltine, London: Frederick Muller Ltd., 1947, p. 42)., an artist who would develop a strong following among American collectorsAchenbach is represented by 30 titles in the index to Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], The Art Treasures of America, Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1879–1882, a survey of America’s private art collections.. Known for dramatic depictions of nature’s moods, Achenbach traveled widely in Europe and spent two years in Italy before settling in Düsseldorf in 1846. Haseltine often joined his American compatriots on sketching expeditions in Germany and Switzerland during the summer months. Accompanying Whittredge, he first crossed the Alps into northern Italy in September of 1856, then returned a year later, descending south for a long winter season that provided the foundation for his love of the Roman countryside and the spectacular coastline of the Campania region. In May 1858, Haseltine made a sketching trip to Naples and explored the towns of Sorrento, Amalfi, and Capri. Aware that his first European sojourn was coming to an end, he used this trip to carefully record the landscape and its panoramic seaward views. In this drawing from 1858, Haseltine represents a part of the great ravine in which the town of Amalfi is perched. Leaving the central piazza and heading directly west through a gateway, the valley could be entered and explored on foot. By climbing a precipitous and winding path, a sojourner could ascend high above the bay, observing en route the homely and picturesque industries of pasta, soap, and paper manufacture. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow later described the narrow gorge as “a stairway, not a street / That ascends the deep ravine / Where the torrent leaps between / Rocky walls that almost meet.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Amalfi,” in The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems, Boston J. R. Osgood and Co., 1875, p. 111. There, in the Valle dei Mulini, mills had channeled the energy of mountain streams since the 11th century. To capture this view, Haseltine followed the footpath up the flank of the valley past the cascades that fed the mills, stopping at a spot where the ravine narrows and a rivulet is crossed by a stone bridge. At middle distance he recorded a stucco building, illuminated by sunlight, and the rounded roof of barn. Small, flat-roofed structures can be seen above the foliage at left and below a craggy peak. These elements of vernacular architecture suit Haseltine’s conception of seemly, non-invasive industry, while the atmospheric prominence of the high ridge in the distance heightens the drama of the composition. Unlike Bierstadt, who included figures in his rendering of a picturesque cooperage along the Rhine (<a href="http://risdmuseum.org/manual/326_american_drawings_and_watercolors_albert_bierstadts_landscape_on_the_rhine">see <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em></a>), Haseltine refrains from introducing signs of the local peasantry. Haseltine often made his wash drawings on large sheets of tan or blue paper, using their color as a base tone for his representation of the landscape. Here he chose a tan sheet and penciled in a spare preliminary sketch before working up the composition with gray wash and black pen. To this limited palette he then applied discrete applications of wash to fix precise points of local color. The flora at left are distinguished by washes of green: a yellowish tint identifies the abundant bushes of spurge while a darker shade creates relief in the foliage behind them. A complementary wash of pink suggests terracotta roof tiles as well as the shallow flow of water in the stream. Haseltine added this drawing to an inventory of site sketches that eventually provided themes for some of the most significant works in his repertoire. In 1859, after he had returned to the States, he transformed the walls of his New York studio with these drawings and used them as resources for paintings. In December of that year a visitor described Haseltine’s rooms at the Tenth Street Studio Building as “hung with sketches of the magnificent rocks and headlands on the bays of Naples and Salerno, added to which are Campagna and mountain views near Rome, and scenes in Venice, the whole forming a pictorial journey through the rare picturesque regions of Italy.”From “Sketchings. Domestic Art Gossip,” Crayon 6: 10 (December 1859), p. 379, cited in Simpson et al., 1992, p. 160, “Chronology”). The painted scenes of Amalfi, Capri, Naples, and Rome that he constructed in his New York studio in the 1860s relied heavily on these drawings, and laid the foundation for his reputation a leading American painter of Italian views. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 5 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 306 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Childe Hassam, a successful young book and magazine illustrator, made his first trip abroad in 1883, disembarking in Great Britain then making a wide sweep through France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. The sheaf of European subjects he brought back became the basis for an exhibition of his watercolors at Boston’s Williams & Everett Gallery in 1884.Hassam showed 67 watercolors of European subjects in the 1884 exhibition Water Colors by Hassam, held at Williams & Everett Gallery, Boston. The complete checklist of titles is included in the appendix “Exhibitions in Hassam’s Lifetime” in H. Barbara Weinberg’s Childe Hassam, American Impressionist (New York, New Haven, and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2004). That same year, Hassam married Kathleen Maude Doan and moved to an apartment building on Columbus Avenue in the recently developed Back Bay area of Boston.Hassam’s discovery of urban Boston is discussed by Erica E. Hirshler in “Childe Hassam: At Dusk, Boston Common at Twilight” (Boston: MFA Publications, 2015). Hassam’s Boston paintings are also discussed by Stephanie L. Herdrich, “Hassam in Boston, 1859–1886,” in Weinberg, 2004, 29–51; and by Jennifer A. Martin Bienenstock, “Childe Hassam’s Early Boston Cityscapes,” Arts Magazine 55 (Nov. 1980), 168–171. His interest in his new surroundings was revealed in 1885, when he submitted watercolors with titles such as <em>In the Public Garden</em> and <em>Springtime in the City</em> to exhibitions in Boston. In the Public Garden was exhibited at the Boston Art Club, 32nd Exhibition, Water Colors, Black and White Drawings, and Sculpture, April 11–May 2, 1885, no. 129. Springtime in the City was shown at the Boston Water-Color Society, 1st Exhibition, from December 1, 1885, no. 1. Neither watercolor has been indisputably identified with a known work, leaving open the possibility that one of these titles might refer to RISD’s painting. Keen to establish his American reputation as a painter, Hassam selected glimpses of modern life to attract the attention of critics, not only through location but through refined technique and finish.See, for example, the large watercolor on paper The Public Garden (Boston Common), 1885, Slavin Collection, fig. 41 in Weinberg, 2004, 47. On page 16 of Childe Hassam: American Impressionist (Munich and New York: Prestel-Verlag, 1994), Ulrich W. Hiesinger notes the improvement of Hassam’s figural style after 1883, when he took life painting classes at the Boston Art Club. One of his instructors there, the Italian painter Tommaso Juglaris, had trained in Paris with Jean-Leon Gerome and Alexandre Cabanel. As an illustrator, Hassam had become an astute observer of the world around him, equally capable of capturing effects of nature as representing women in fashionable attire. Both these elements are included in <em>Woman and Mastiff in the Boston Public Garden</em>, a watercolor whose urban immediacy is enhanced by an audacious canine presence. The young woman has a firm hold on the collar of her trusty companion as they pause and gaze upward, as if fixed on a bird beyond the range of the composition. While the model’s pose might have originated in the studio, the inclusion of the dog appears fresh and original, suggesting the inspiration of Velasquez, whose paintings of mastiffs Hassam could have seen at the Prado.Velasquez’s importance to 19th-century European and American artists is widely acknowledged. Las Meniñas (1656), in which a mastiff is featured, would have been a highlight of Hassam’s 1883 visit to the Prado. He would also have seen a painting of a dwarf with a mastiff that was then considered to be a work by Velazquez, and was copied by numerous artists, including John Singer Sargent. During the winter Hassam often transcribed nature from his window or from inside a carriage, but in spring and summer he could comfortably work outdoors, openly observing city life and abandoning a palette of grays and russets for the close hue contrasts of blues and greens.Hassam described sketching his early street scenes from his window or from inside a cab in an interview with A. E. Ives, “Talks with Artists: Mr. Childe Hassam on Painting Street Scenes,” Art Amateur 27 (Oct. 1892), 116–17. The accuracy of the park’s topography, the hazy foliage below the rooftops on Beacon Hill, and the activity of the gardener who transplants a flowerbed attest to Hassam’s direct observation of this setting. The strolling female figure was an important trope for painters of modern life, both in Paris and in Boston, and appealed to collectors;By the late 1870s, this subject was already a particular preference of American collectors of paintings by Giuseppe De Nittis, Jean Beraud, Giovanni Boldini, and Jean-Francois Raffaelli. Hassam shared that interest and emphasized the respectability of his city’s parks. In 1885 he made a series of illustrations for <em>A New Departure for Girls</em>, a book by the popular author Margaret Sidney.Margaret Sidney (Mrs. Harriet Mulford Stone Lothrop), A New Departure for Girls (Boston: D. Lothrop and Co., 1886). In this inspirational novel, the protagonist sets out to seek work and finds herself on a path that curves around the lagoon in the Public Garden. (Fig. 1) “A Garden in the city’s midst!” she exclaims, describing it as a place more energizing than rural nature—still and peaceful but “responding to healthy longings for activity.”Sidney, 1886, 47–48. As in RISD’s watercolor, this view shows the garden’s suspension bridge in the background, but the stroller’s excursion takes place on the opposite side of the lagoon, with the clock tower of the old Providence-Boston train station prominent against the sky. A skilled “black-and-white man,” Hassam most likely made this version as a monochromatic painting that in turn would have been cut onto a wooden block by professional line engravers. Illustrators who provided pen-and-ink drawings and monochromatic paintings to publishers were called “black-and-white men.” Their images were then cut into hardwood printing blocks by expert line men who often added their names to the artist’s signature. John Schoelch and George L. Cowee engraved the blocks for A New Departure for Girls. Hassam’s ability to interpret the atmospheric effects of nature is perhaps most evident in the many paintings he made of the rocky coves of the Isles of Shoals, located off the coast of New Hampshire’s border with Maine. Through his friendship with the poet Celia Thaxter, Hassam became a frequent summer visitor to the island of Appledore, where Thaxter’s home served as a gathering place for artists.Hassam’s 1884 drawing of figures on a sandy beach was published as a woodcut illustration for Thaxter’s 1886 collection of poems, Idyls and Pastorals. Although the date of his first visit to Appledore is not certain, his friendship with Thaxter began in the early 1880s. See Curry, 1990, 33 and 195, n. 62. Around 1888 Hassam built a studio on Appledore, and in the ensuing summers applied his brush to recreating impressions of the flowers that filled Thaxter’s gardens and home.David Park Curry thoughtfully examines Hassam’s seascapes in the chapter “The Rocks of Appledore,” in Curry, 1990, 115–89. He dates the construction of Hassam’s studio to ca. 1888, relating it to the flurry of construction undertaken by Thaxter’s family, the Laightons, who were owners of the Appledore House hotel (Curry, 1990, 38). After a period of absence in the late 1890s, Hassam returned to Appledore regularly until around 1916. His noteworthy collaboration with Thaxter, an illustrated book entitled <em>An Island Garden</em>, appeared in 1894, the year of the writer’s death. The heightened optical perception and skill apparent in his watercolors for the book revealed an intense and personal awareness of nature that flourished in this environment. When he returned to Appledore in the late 1890s, he brought his maturity and concentration to a study of the island’s more abstract geological beauty, and initiated a series of paintings of its coastal ledges and inlets. Sketching on site, Hassam drew <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em> on July 23, 1907, from a spot on the southwest side of the island where he also painted in oil.Curry specifies the location of Diamond Cove (1990, 162) and illustrates the RISD drawing (pl. 78). He made the sketch in black pencil and colored chalks on the inside of a stiff paper folder bearing the monogram and address of Augustus H. Tennis of New York City.The monogram appears as “AHT” above “Augustus H. Tennis / 47 East Nineteenth Street / New York.” Tennis was an agent for the Howe Machine Company, and the folder may have housed pages of a trade catalogue. It originally bore a sticker for a card and millboard manufacturer: E. H. & A. C. Friedrichs Co. 169 W. 57th Street N.Y. The impression of the monogram is visible in the cliffs at the left of the drawing. The vertical crease of the booklet cover, which is pricked where it had been sewn, is also evident. Hassam trimmed the left edge of the opened cover, so the crease does not fall at the center of the composition. An oil painting of this view, entitled <em>Isles of Shoals</em>, was also completed in 1907.See Curry, pl. 79, Isles of Shoals, 1907, oil on canvas, 26 x 31 in., Portland Art Museum, Oregon Art Institute. A related painting, dated the following year, is reproduced in Curry, pl. 80, Diamond Cove, Isles of Shoals, 1908, oil on panel, 25 x 30 in., Gallery of Art, Washington University, St. Louis. In graphite and black chalk, Hassam mapped out the drawing’s composition, devising a reverse S-curve to lead the eye from the transparent waters of the cove to the rugged contours of the cliffs. He sketched the cliff walls and recesses with a close up-and-down stroke, connecting them with a line that concludes in an anchoring scribble at lower left. The rocky mass ascends to the top of the sheet where it is intersected by a sliver of the mainland, just visible on horizon. Allowing the buff color of the paper to suggest the earthy tints of the rocks, Hassam applied a palette of blues and yellow-greens to represent the lively movement of light on the water and the growth of algae on the cliffs. He used white chalk to heighten the reflected brilliance of their rocky surfaces and to pick out stones in the shallow water near the shore. A comparison of <em>Diamond Cove, Appledore</em>, with the related oil painting of this site reveals Hassam’s full grasp of his subject in its preliminary stages. The drawing contains the complete armature for the larger composition, from the slender ribbon of sky to the foreground’s rocky perch. On Appledore Hassam drew from life, recreating—even in a quick sketch—the visual experiences that were among the richest and most meaningful of his career. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 4 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 306 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Five works on paper in the RISD Museum’s collection follow the arc of Charles Burchfield’s career, introducing and reprising themes that reveal his desire for artistic unity with nature. Burchfield’s development in the early years of the twentieth century merged an appreciation for decorative surfaces, notably those of Asian and Near Eastern art, with an imagination that was fueled by his own his experiences. Raised in Salem, Ohio, by his widowed mother, he had spent his childhood gathering impressions and images from the landscape around him. From 1912 to 1916 Burchfield studied at the Cleveland School of Art, where his youthful admiration for the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Arthur Rackham, and Edmond Dulac led him to consider a career as an illustrator. Upon graduation he won a scholarship to the National Academy of Design, New York, but the few months he spent there in the autumn of 1916 confirmed his aversion to both figure drawing and to city life. Despite an encouraging contact with Mary Mowbray-Clarke, who showed his work at her Sunwise Turn Bookshop, he decided to leave New York before the end of the year. Burchfield described the months that followed his return to Ohio as his “golden year.” Employed by day as an accountant at the W. H. Mullins Company, he communed with nature on evenings and weekends, producing sheets of drawings and watercolors that vibrated with the joy of his homecoming. In later years he would come back to the images of 1917, incorporating them into larger compositions that attempted to recapture the freedom and vision of his youthful discoveries. Some of these early drawings were what he called “idea notes,” including components of plant life or effects of weather that comprised a sign language of nature. In others, such as <em>Violets</em>, a large watercolor of 1917, his conception was fully edited and staged. In the foreground, animated violets chant an overture for a grand performance spring. In a clearing, framed by formidable sentinels, a stand of tree trunks elevates a shimmery pyramidal bower. Burchfield told his dealer, Frank Rehn, that <em>Violets</em> was one of his favorites and asked him to submit it to the Rhode Island School of Design in 1944 in response to the Museum’s request to see “a few of his finest early things” for purchase consideration.RISD Museum director Gordon Washburn expressed interest in the early work when the Museum lent Three Boats in Winter to a Burchfield retrospective exhibition organized by the Albright Art Gallery, Buffalo, in 1944. A former director of the Albright, Washburn recalled Violets from a visit to Burchfield’s studio in Gardenville, New York, and mentioned this when he wrote to Burchfield on May 9, 1944, to ask if he would send a selection of early watercolors for RISD’s consideration. The artist’s dealer, Frank K. M. Rehn, responded on June 6, 1944, commenting that Violets was also one of Burchfield’s favorites (Frank K. M. Rehn Galleries correspondence, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/frank-km-rehn-galleries-records-9193/more#section_1). Burchfield had found Washburn dismissive of American Modernism during his time in Buffalo. In a journal entry dated January 16, 1939, he described Washburn as “one of the younger museum directors who is trained at the Fogg Museum in a sort of cultural vacuum… . His attitude & use of French terms were galling to me.” Describing Washburn’s European bias, he noted (January 21, 1939) that he “would stand in front of one of the most trivial and inane of Matisse’s effort[s], and say with the air of God delivering the commandments from Mount Sinai ‘This is a great picture.’” Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Charles Burchfield’s Journals: The Poetry of Place, edited by J. Benjamin Townsend (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 562. The respite of Burchfield’s golden year was short. Inducted into the army in 1918, he was sent to Camp Jackson, South Carolina, where he was assigned first to field artillery and then to the camouflage section before being dismissed at the war’s end with the rank of sergeant. During the next two years, he turned from animistic nature imagery and began to document the landscape of towns, often stripping them of color and imposing a spare architectural geometry.Michael D. Hall analyzes Burchfield’s distinctive Modernism in “Cones, Cubes, and Brooding Shacks: Charles Burchfield’s House Pictures 1918–1920,” in Charles Burchfield 1920: The Architecture of Painting (New York, D.C. Moore Gallery, 2009); Gates Down is illustrated on page 93. Burchfield included an illustration of Gates Down in his 1928 essay “On the Middle Border,” Creative Arts, 3, September 1928. A snowy Pennsylvania Railroad crossing at New Garden Street in Salem is the setting for <em>Gates Down</em>, a 1920 watercolor whose composition is activated by the racing diagonal of the track and the smoke of an oncoming train. The gate has been lowered by a switchman—a rare Burchfield figure—who is silhouetted in the lantern-like tower. Opposite, the low roofs of a factory are overshadowed by a monolithic industrial block whose chimney spews brown fumes. Dark outlines and broad strokes of opaque pigment present a somber contrast to the mood of Burchfield’s earlier naturalist subjects, but he generates energy in the locomotive’s burning headlamp and in the sparking triangle of the signal lamp. Like all of nature’s humours, snow and ice were not, of themselves, hostile elements to Burchfield. After moving to Buffalo in 1921 to take a job with the H. M. Birge & Sons wallpaper company, he was attracted by the sights of the local waterfront in winter, and soon began to paint the freighters on Lake Erie. Their commerce restricted by the lake’s icy manacles, the passive ships served frequently as models for Burchfield, and were the subjects of several paintings. In 1933 he completed <em>Three Boats in Winter</em>, a composition observed in the Buffalo harbor near the Ohio Street Bridge. It was purchased the following year by the Rhode Island School of Design after being shown at the Museum’s Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Art.Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Catalogue of the Annual Exhibition of Contemporary American Paintings, October 3–30, 1934, no. 9. Three Boats in Winter (watercolor), lent by the Rehn Gallery. Although Burchfield’s paintings of the twenties and thirties, including the Buffalo sites, were often described by critics as portraits of the “American Scene,” his own stated intentions resisted the limitations of this interpretation. “While I feel strongly the personality of a given scene, its ‘genius loci’ as it were, my chief aim in painting it,” he wrote, “is the expression of a completely personal mood.”Charles Burchfield, Monograph Number 13 (New York: American Artists Group, Inc., 1945), n.p. Foreword by Charles Burchfield. By the late thirties Burchfield identified a “determination to come to grips with nature in a way I have never done before.”Burchfield, Journals, November 29, 1938, 486. He had already begun to reexamine his work from 1917–1918 and felt compelled to recall the intensity of his youthful experiences and to recapture the spontaneity and expressiveness of that period. His watercolors of the next two decades built on the early drawings, both literally and figuratively. In the 1940s he devised a complex methodology that involved attaching additional strips of paper to drawings he had made in 1917 and then expanding the original motifs in order to create larger paintings. He also found new ways to employ old favorite subjects, such as the striped birch trees that he used in two of his earliest wallpaper designs.In 1921, Burchfield created two wallpaper designs in which birch trees were the dominant motif. One of these, The Birches, in the collection of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, was based on this watercolor from 1917: https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1975-092-000-the-birches/ The drawing <em>Tree Interior</em>, which features the trunks of striped birches, was inscribed “Study for Summer Afternoon.”The verso of the drawing bears the inscription: “Tree Interior” 1948 / A Study for “Summer Afternoon.” A large 1917–1948 watercolor with that title includes aspects of the drawing’s jagged black halo and energized sky, suggesting nature’s inherent potential for change, while its armature of branches and exploding crown of foliage found their way into later paintings.While not directly quoted in these paintings, Tree Interior represents Burchfield’s process of using drawings to establish motifs and to inject renewed fervor into his later work. Summer Afternoon, 1917–1948; watercolor, 48 x 42 in., Collection Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts; Gift of Mrs. Lawrence H. Bloedel http://contentdm.williams.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/wcma&CISOPTR=36&CISOBOX=1&REC=12 July Sunlight Pouring Down, 1952; watercolor on paper, 35 x 26 in., on permanent loan to the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2013-0704-001-july-sunlight-pouring-down/ Summer Solstice (In Memory of the American Chestnut Tree), 1961–1966; watercolor on paper, 54 x 60 in. Image from the archives of the Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:v2012-015-001-summer-solstice-in-memroy-of-the-american-chestnut-tree/ <em>Tree Interior</em> may have been made on site during Burchfield’s daylong stretches in the woods and meadows near his Gardenville, New York, home, or drawn later as he recalled “great cumulus clouds piled up into huge towering masses, overhead, blotting out the sun, and casting a deep shadow over the trees and fields.”Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1948, 518. Burchfield’s reconstructions served as springboards to his next phase of abstract naturalism. When reapplied in maturity, the imagery that he had invented and codified in his youth became an inspired and flexible vocabulary. Of the many themes in nature that Burchfield continued to address, the change of seasons proved among the most fecund to his imagination. The drawing <em>Oncoming Spring</em>, a preliminary sketch for a painting of the same title,Oncoming Spring, 1954; watercolor on paper mounted on board, 29 1/2 x 39 5/8 in.; Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State, purchased in part with support from the Western New York Foundation and the Olmsted Family in Memory of Harold L. Olmsted, 1990. https://www.burchfieldpenney.org/collection/object:1990-003-000-oncoming-spring/ is one of a series of works that dramatizes the conflicting, coincidental stages that mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. With this drawing, made three years before the completed painting, the basic elements of the painting’s structure were set in place. In a barren wooded setting, variations of crescent-shaped forms float among dark slender tree trunks. Identified as conventions in Burchfield’s 1917 sketchbook, the crescents were often used to express feelings or moods.See Charles Burchfield, Sketchbook: Conventions for Abstract Thoughts, 1917, Burchfield Penney Art Center at SUNY Buffalo State. The conventions are widely discussed in the Burchfield literature. In later years the crescent was described by Burchfield (letter to Theodore Braasch, September 13, 1959, courtesy Burchfield Penny Art Center, Buffalo, New York) as “differing in meaning of course according to its position.” Face up, it could be “eerie or menacing—at best a pixie mischievousness”; face down, it could express “astonishment, wariness, foreboding, and also sadness, nostalgia, or worship of God,” and even “heat and its discomfort.” Pockets of wind, sound and movement might also be suggested by variations of this shape. But here they exist as windows in the winter landscape, revealing lightly sketched images of spring growth. Above their outlines a birdlike form ascends as a symbol of the earth’s rebirth in the coming season. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 389 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 392 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 392 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 392 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 392 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 388 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 0 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances() (line 392 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view_unformatted', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 129) __TwigTemplate_c1babb60e112ad993125dc5af5a5b779->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/views/views-view--site-search--page-1.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view__site_search__page_1', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 1 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 283 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 1 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 306 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 2 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 283 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 3 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 306 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 4 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 283 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/content/node--teaser.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('node', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 60) __TwigTemplate_b5820ae2fc9ac809d8bb920432eaa798->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/contrib/classy/templates/views/views-view-unformatted.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) 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Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 4 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 306 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 5 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 283 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 7 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 283 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/contrib/classy/templates/field/field--text-with-summary.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('field', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 231) __TwigTemplate_d0a4e06ec4cdc862487a9e59e7ee55e6->block_node_content(Array, Array) (Line: 171) Twig\Template->displayBlock('node_content', Array, Array) (Line: 91) __TwigTemplate_fb45c12c057c90d6dad87acc3f8af627->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array, Array) (Line: 51) __TwigTemplate_d0a4e06ec4cdc862487a9e59e7ee55e6->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) 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Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view_unformatted', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 129) __TwigTemplate_c1babb60e112ad993125dc5af5a5b779->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/views/views-view--site-search--page-1.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view__site_search__page_1', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 7 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 306 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 8 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 283 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 8 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 306 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 10 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 283 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 10 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 306 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/content/node--teaser.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('node', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 60) __TwigTemplate_b5820ae2fc9ac809d8bb920432eaa798->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/contrib/classy/templates/views/views-view-unformatted.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) 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Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 11 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 283 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->fetch(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 128) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->lookup(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 82) Drupal\page_cache\StackMiddleware\PageCache->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 270) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->bypass(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 137) Drupal\shield\ShieldMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\ReverseProxyMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\NegotiationMiddleware->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 51) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\StackedHttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 704) Drupal\Core\DrupalKernel->handle(Object) (Line: 19) - Warning: Undefined array key 11 in Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback() (line 306 of modules/contrib/footnotes/src/Plugin/Filter/FootnotesFilter.php).
Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Over the course of his artistic life, Marsden Hartley sought unmediated communion with open skies and rugged terrain. Although the mosaic-like compositions that he created during his first trip abroad in 1912 embodied his strong emotions about “the cosmic scene,”Hartley to Rockwell Kent, December 1912, cited in Thomas Ludington, Seeking the Spiritual: the Paintings of Marsden Hartley (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 28. he sustained an innate belief that the spiritual in nature could only be acquired through direct experience of landscape. Hartley’s “mystical abstractions,” as he called them, drew inspiration from the paintings of Picasso and by the writings of Wassily Kandinsky, but he was also deeply moved by the art and letters of Vincent van Gogh. He sought out Van Gogh’s paintings from the moment he arrived in Paris, describing the artist to Alfred Stieglitz as “an eminently spiritual being”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (received December 20, 1912),* My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915*, James Timothy Voorhees, ed. (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2002), 47. with a “visionary quality that gives his canvases their beauty.”Hartley to Stieglitz, n.d. (February 1913, Paris), My Dear Stieglitz: Letters of Marsden Hartley and Alfred Stieglitz, 1912–1915, 57. Hartley’s first letter to Stieglitz from Paris on April 13, 1912, p. 12, declared “I saw 8 Van Goghs this afternoon.” He continued to seek them out in Paris and expressed regret that it would not host the “great show at Cologne with 100 Van Goghs” that was held in Cologne that summer [Sonderbund westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Ausstellungshalle der Stadt Cöln am Aachener Tor, 25 May–30 September 1912] n.d. (September 1912, Paris). The sensations of nature that inspired Van Gogh remained foremost in Hartley’s consciousness when he returned to Europe after the first World War, having expressed to Stieglitz a desire to seek “fresh landscape experiences” in the south of France.Hartley to Alfred Stieglitz, December 28, 1922, Stieglitz Papers, Beinecke Rare Book Library, Yale University. He was anxious to be financially independent from the demands of the art market, but it was not until 1924 that an economic solution presented itself. At the urging of US diplomat William C. Bullitt, who had recently married Hartley’s friend Louise Bryant,Hartley’s circle of friends in Provincetown in the summer of 1916 included journalists Bryant and John Reed (1887–1920), whom she married that fall. Bryant married Bullitt after Reed’s death and introduced him to Hartley in Paris in 1924. In his autobiography, Somehow a Past (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128, Hartley wrote that he and Bullitt “liked each other from the start.” a syndicate of investors was organized by the New York banker William V. Griffin to provide Hartley with an annual stipend of $2000 for four years. The initial offer was made without demand for compensation, but Hartley insisted sending his benefactors 10 paintings each year “so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132, described his determination to repay the investors with paintings and “to deliver, according to my own suggestion, a certain number of pictures in the year—so that I could feel I was earning my living thereby avoiding gifts.” Discussion and documentation of this arrangement appear in Townsend Ludington, Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Artist (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 174, citing Hartley’s letters to Norma Berger, September 1, 1924, and to Alfred Stieglitz December 18, 1924; in Bruce Weber, The Heart of the Matter: The Still Lifes of Marsden Hartley (New York: Berry-Hill Galleries, 2003), 52; and in Heather Hole, Marsden Hartley and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 130. Hole cites a letter from Leila Wittler at M. Knoedler & Co. to Miss Irvine at the Whitney Museum, February 1945 (Elizabeth McCausland Papers, Reel D268, fr. 44) identifying the investors: banker James Imbrie, former secretary of the navy James Forrestal, and Ralph Ingersoll, who was married to Griffin’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Griffin’s brother, Judge George Carden, was elsewhere mentioned as an investor. http://www.berry-hill.com/artists/marsden-hartley. In August 1925 Hartley settled in Vence in a house with a garden and a distant view of the Mediterranean. Although he found delight in visits to nearby Cannes, his artistic progress was plagued by bronchitis and rainy weather, and he eventually determined that the immediate countryside of Vence was “nice to look at but not to paint.”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 132. Instead, his output over the next year was dominated by still-life painting, a practice that had long paralleled his interest in botany and his appreciation of the work of Cézanne and Matisse. Although his slow start in Vence delayed the first installment to the investors, compositions of fruit, flowers, vessels, and baskets helped him meet his first two years’ quota by July 1926.Discouraged by his setbacks in Vence, Hartley initially asked Stieglitz to provide Griffin with 10 paintings that he had on hand in New York, “20 x 24 in size … not of the very best of course—at least those less abstract better say” (Hartley to Stieglitz, December 31, 1925, and February 2, 1926, cited in Ludington, 174). Griffin, however, was sympathetic and excused the delay. Weber, 52, notes that the syndicate received at least 10 still-lifes from Hartley, five of which were identified in the 2003 Berry-Hill exhibition and publication. When Hartley returned to the landscape for inspiration, he ventured deeper into the Alpes-Maritimes region to Gorges du Loup and Gattière, intending to paint “Italian Alpine profiles.”Quoted in Jeanne Hokin, Pinnacles & Pyramids: The Art of Marsden Hartley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 57. Hartley uses this phrase in a letter to Stieglitz, February 2, 1926, in which he discusses his plans to visit Gorges du Loup. He spent several weeks in these mountainous regions, immersing himself in their dramatic geology and confirming his belief that going straight to nature, rather than relying on the imagination, as Stieglitz had urged, was the path to creative rejuvenation. <em>Gorges du Loup, Provence</em>, which was painted during one of these liberating excursions, represents Hartley’s encounter with the high rocky masses on either side of a deep ravine. The opening to a low tunnel is dwarfed by the dense and monumental cliffs, challenging access to the placid waters of the river beyond. Unlike the low, horizontal “New Mexico recollections” that preoccupied Hartley in the years preceding this trip, representation of <em>Gorges du Loup</em>, Provence demanded a compact, vertical composition. He used this format to compress the landscape, emphasizing the height of plummeting cliffs and packing their ridges with tenacious flora that encroach on the narrow passageway. Darkly contoured, asymmetric rock walls dominate the foreground and function like diagonally skewed theatre curtains. Dramatically, beyond the crevasse, they reveal the green ribbon of the Loup, low mountain peaks, and an untethered cloud in a pale blue sky. The dynamic contrasts between the elements of earth, air, and water confirm Hartley’s return to direct experience of the natural motif. His brushstrokes are firm and instinctive, loaded with pigment that physically and chromatically responds to his perception of the Gorges du Loup. He uses short curved marks to construct the foliage and thick vertical gestures to separate irregular surfaces into pools of earthy color. Long vertical streaks suggest rhythmic movement within the solid mass of cliffs—a technical variant of the CloisonnismDark outlines, and in this case interior lines, recall the jeweler’s technique known as cloisonné, in which wires function as dams to isolate pools of enamel. Considered a post-modern painting technique, Cloisonnism was employed by Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others to flatten perspective and create bold decorative effects. that he had applied to his New Mexico landscapes and would continue to employ in views of Partenkirchen, Germany; Dogtown (Gloucester, Massachusetts); and Vinalhaven, Maine. In spite of their flattening effect, these aggressive gestures emphasize the physical properties of the view, and reject the careful modeling Hartley employed in works such as <a href="http://www.speedmuseum.org/collections/maritime-alps-vence-no-9/"><em>Maritime Alps, Vence, No. 9,</em> 1925–1926</a>, whose block-like patches of color signal the influence of Cézanne. When he wrote to Stieglitz that two weeks at Gorges du Loup were “not enough,”Hartley, Somehow a Past, 136. he admitted to the challenges still before him, but he also revealed renewed conviction in his ability to communicate a deeply personal apprehension of nature. <em>Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture</em> ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Agrippina the Younger watches as men of the emperor move nearer and nearer to her. They carry weapons. Having survived one attempt on her life, she knows that she will not survive another. One man knocks her over the head with a club and another raises his sword. With her last breath, she implores her killers to strike through her womb— the womb that birthed Nero, her matricidal son. <em>The Remorse of Nero After Killing his Mother</em> by John William Waterhouse Public domain, source: http://www.wikiart.org/en/john-william-waterhouse/the-remorse-of-nero-after-the- murder-of-his-mother-1878, in which Nero realizes that maybe killing his mother 1 wasn’t a nice thing to do. Image courtesy of The Victorian Web This account of Agrippina’s death, corroborated by several ancient historians but likelyC.f., Tacitus 14; Dio 12.12-14. embellished, previews the difficulties we will face in exploring Agrippina in the historical record. Why does Agrippina asked to be stabbed through the womb? Yes, she birthed Nero, but could her last plea also represent a Lady Macbeth-esque desire to unsex herself—a metonymic exhortation to destroy that which made her a woman? Is this question of any import to her portrait at the RISD Museum? Turning first to how contemporary revisionist historians have begun to view earlier historians of Agrippina, I will then look at the role of Agrippina’s portrait as a living cultural artifact inextricably linked with certain changes in the historical reception of Agrippina. Agrippina the Younger (15–59 CE) was closely connected to the first five Roman emperors: she was great-granddaughter of Augustus, great-niece and adoptive granddaughter of Tiberius, sister of Caligula, niece and fourth wife of Claudius, and mother of Nero. Beyond her noble status, Agrippina demanded “real and official power” and not mere “influence.” That Agrippina faces a hostile historical record isImperial Women 259. beyond debate and related to her demands for this sort of power. Since Suetonius andIbid; I, Claudia 62. Tacitus, she has been characterized as bloodthirsty, overly ambitious, sexually flagrant, and unfeminine; and accused of crimes from murder to incest.Imperial Women, 1. Susan Wood, who has written much on Agrippina the Younger and other Roman women, traces this hostile historical record, above all else, to Agrippina’s encroachment on traditionally male privileges, and colorfully points to prejudices and inaccuracies in many of the accusations against her. I would like to focus first on Wood’s assertionImperial Women 259. that the frequency that powerful and intelligent woman faced nearly identical accusations renders them suspect. Such depictions of these women, which still abound in AmericanImperial Women 262 politics today, stem from actual misogyny or a desire to use a stereotype as an easy rhetorical shortcut. Second, Wood holds that the structure of Roman society encouraged its women to act indirectly. Direct avenues of holding power were closed off to women and thus, if they wanted to exercise power, they were forced to pursue “devious and manipulative forms of behavior.” While not exonerating Agrippina from all blame— even the most revisionist of historians agree that she was still guilty of many crimes— we should look critically on accusations against her, in particular those that follow a predictable pattern. Understanding Agrippina’s legacy in the contemporary historical debate prepares us to more fully appreciate the RISD Museum's portrait of Agrippina, its role (or roles) in this muddled historical record, and what it means to the viewer today. Since the move away from more realistic representations under Augustus, Roman portraiture began to be used as a tool for communicating ideologies.www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm What sort of ideology does Agrippina’s portrait communicate? First of all, we must ask who commissioned the statue, and thus who was doing the communicating. We can’t be sure that Agrippina commissioned the statue, or when in her life it would have been commissioned. Museum records date the piece to circa 40 CE. If dated before Caligula’s death, it could have been commissioned by Caligula himself. In this case, the statue would have acted as part of Caligula’s plan to elevate Agrippina, Drusilla, and his other sisters.. Through this Cult of Drusilla, Caligula sought to set up his sisters as objects of veneration in order to cement his own rule and power.Barrett 225; “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula”. They were invoked with Caligula in public oaths and, together with Antonia the Younger, were the first to be granted privileges normally accorded to the Vestal Virgins.Behen 62 We can see an example of such a depiction on the backside of the coin belowBarret 225; Source of image: http://www.wildwinds.com/coins/sear5/s1800.html: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Caligula_sestertius_RIC_33_680999.jpg">Sestertius from rule of Caligula. Front: Germanicus; Back: Agrippina the Younger and her sisters.</a> However, if we suppose that the statue was commissioned by Agrippina, the function is altered and Agrippina is the one in control of manipulating her own image. This portrait and other commissioned by Agrippina can as Curator of Ancient Art Gina Borromeo writes, “give us an idea of how she wished to be portrayed.”Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” Given that Agrippina’ autobiography was destroyed,Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” this piece might be able to grant us invaluable insight into understanding a figure so prejudiced by the historical record, as she herself wished to be perceived. In any case, one should be no less critical here than with the rest of the historical record, and we can only suggest this as one possible interpretation. Presuming that Agrippina commissioned the portrait, it seems unlikely that it was when Agrippina’s power was most threatened. From late 39 to January 41, she was exiled by her brother Caligula. It might be the case that this statue was a part of an effort by Agrippina to reconsolidate her power upon returning from exile. It is interesting to entertain the idea that this might be from a year as late as 49 — after she married Claudius and become empress but that seems unlikely, as other statues we have from that period display evidence of an imperial diadem.Behen 63. The idea that Agrippina commissioned the portrait can be supported with close inspection. The portrait seems to depart from the faceless, unassuming Vestal Virgin of the sestertius minted under Caligula. She does not ask us to idealize her as some feminine standard of beauty; rather, she presents herself as “rather jowly” with “heavy features” and a “large nose,”Barrett 225. and there is a “certain asymmetry in her features” and especially the nose.Ridgway 201. This could be a response to gossip that circulated against her, as a woman and of which she might have had some awareness. As contemporary biographer Anthony A. Barrett observes, her attractiveness is not a “trivial issue” when historians such as Tacitus claimed that she was a “beautiful woman” who used her “physical charms to ensnare a defenseless Claudius, among others.”Barrett 225. Agrippina looks determined, fearless, and perhaps even disdainful. The severe eyebrows extend horizontally to the hairline and dislocate the forehead, and elevate the corner of the brows in a way that lend force to this expression.Ridgway 201. Running parallel from a center part, the tresses of hair becomes tighter as it moves towards the ears.Ibid. This style possibly evokes, as it does in other portraits of her,Behen 63. that of Agrippina’s mother who was also politically powerful and suffered exile. The allusion to her mother’s hairstyle would have presumably been more apparent to those who lived in Rome who grew up around representations of Agrippina the Elder. In drawing comparison to her mother, Agrippina the Younger insists on her noble lineage and right to wield authority, even as a woman; she anticipates the future power that she would one day hold and had pretensions of holding and legitimizes her right to that power by invocation. Similarly her protruding upper lip and small chin recall depictions of her brother Caligula, Behen 62. and these resemblances seek to further highlight her dynastic right to rule. The bust of the statue—including the taupe tunic, green mantle, and socle (or simple pedestal)—is not ancient but likely from the 18th century and parallels other portraits we have from this era.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” In addition to this theory, this article also contains a more detailed treatment of the 18th century additions. What does the addition say about 18th century tastes and perceptions of this portrait, and the larger question of how historical forces can shape perceptions of an object? To begin to answer these questions, one must first understand 18th century restoration practices. Often broken statutes were mended with new creations (for another example, the RISD Museum’s <em>Figure in the Guise of Hermes</em>; both the ancient body and removed leg of 18th century origin can be viewed in the Ancient Art Gallery). The addition of the bust in the case of the Agrippina perhaps was responding to a need to more easily display the piece and a perceived lack of color. The RISD Museum acquired the piece from a Marchioness of Linlithgow and before that it was probably proudly exhibited by many other wealthy individuals. Here these individuals used this piece in a similar manner to how we guessed Agrippina might have—to highlight nobility and power. These perceived deficiencies unawarely hit on the part that the portrait played in antiquity. As Borromeo elucidates, ancient statues of white marble were typically painted in vivid colors, thus this 18th century addition incidentally gives the contemporary museumgoer some indication of the effect that color would have added.Borromeo, “Looking an Empress in the Eye.” While this proves to be an interesting historical coincidence, one would err to imagine that this negates the history of this object and reverts it to some earlier form; rather, these additions present a visual manifestation of how viewers of different periods can bring something of their own age to a work, so as to inscribe new meaning and shed light on aspects that have long laid dormant. As the literary critic and theorist Stephen Greenblatt states, “Cultural artifacts do not stay still, . . . they exist in time, and . . . they are bound up with personal and institutional conflicts, negotiations, and appropriations.” One would be remiss to see Agrippina’s portrait at the RISD Museum and assume its significance was locked up in Imperial Rome. Commenting on the legacy of Agrippina, Barrett questions whether she was ever able to escape a “devastating ‘image’ problem.”Barrett 225. Like Wood, he views her manipulation as necessary—although not excusable—in the misogynistic culture that she faced. Successful manipulation was not only a matter of publicity but also of life and death. She excelled in this manipulation as the wife of Claudius but “tragically failed” as the life of Nero, leading to the death described at the beginning of this essay. In her own time, Barrett concludes, “She did not change the hardened attitude of her contemporaries, but she did define what Romans were willing to tolerate.” In a similar way, her portrait measures what the people of various ages are willing to tolerate, and mirrors and even influences social and cultural processes. The recent revisionist work of historians such as Wood and Barrett opens up to us new hermeneutic possibilities that reflect larger developments and processes of our times. On the other hand, we should avoid presenting our own age as superior. As media coverage of the 2016 American presidential election reminds us, it is all too easy to let misleading tropes color perception. Although it cannot be said that, when it comes to attitudes about women, American society is fully beyond the hardened attitudes of Imperial Rome, examining how other ages received Agrippina and her portrait can alert us to systemic flaws in our own thought processes. Bibliography Behen, Michael J., in Diana Kleiner and Susan Matheson, eds. I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 1996), 62-63. Barrett, Anthony. Agrippina. Florence, US: Routledge, 2002. ProQuest ebrary. Web. 15 May 2016. Borromeo, Gina. “Looking an Empress in the Eye,” RISD Museum Manual. Web. May 2016 Clark, A. M., “An Agrippina,” Bulletin of the Rhode Island School of Design, Museum Notes 44 (May 1958) 3–5, 10. Ridgway, Brunilde S., Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Classical Sculpture (Providence, 1972) 86–87, 201–204. Trentinella, Rosemarie. “Roman Portrait Sculpture: The Stylistic Cycle.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/ropo2/hd_ropo2.htm (October 2003) Wood, Susan E., “Diva Drusilla Panthea and the Sisters of Caligula,” American Journal of Archaeology 99 (1995): 457–82. Wood, Susan E., Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68 (Boston, 1999), with earlier references. 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