Ebook Gallery

The place: Mexico. The year: Post-1910. Viva la revolución! Mexico was on the verge of change. Political instability, the blight of dictatorship, a peasants’ revolt. If Margaret Mitchell had penned a novel in the midst of such a setting, surely a turbulent love story to equal that of ‘Gone with the Wind’ would have ensued.

We need only look to those well-known Mexican painters Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera for reference. I could argue that with events such as the Mexican Revolution fresh in everyone’s minds, passions must have run high. Actions were no longer as restrained. The freedoms of speech and desire were rife.

Despite the volatile relationship shared by the painters (both of whom had several extra-marital affairs during their time together), I’m going to go out on a limb and say that Kahlo lived in an isolated world. A pain-filled existence was all she ever knew from the age of 6, when she contracted polio, leaving her left leg crippled. At 18 she was left with life-long injuries following a severe bus accident, including a perforated abdomen and uterus, which led to three terminated pregnancies in later life.

These experiences, and the pain that followed, must undoubtedly have trapped her in a separate universe from her contemporaries. What solace she may have been looking for in her relationships and affairs, she truly found in her art. In her art, she was able to express herself. In her art, she was able to share her suffering. In her art, she was able to heal.

The Two Fridas, 1939. Oil on canvas, 173.5 x 173 cm, Museo de Arte Moderno, Mexico City

Many of her paintings are self-portraits, symbolising the solitude that she felt; her own figure and visage being the one that she was most familiar with. However, in several of her paintings she also references Diego, either as a symbol of love or of pain.

One painting which perhaps best characterises the depth of her feelings for Rivera is ‘The two Fridas’. A double portrait of herself, it shows the Frida that was rejected by Diego at the time of their divorce. Her heart has been broken, and is bleeding. The Frida on the right is the Frida that Diego still loves; her heart is whole, and she is holding a small portrait of Diego in her hand.

Amongst her self-portraits, monkeys are a common feature. In Mexico, the monkey is a symbol of lust. Kahlo transformed this conception into one of tenderness. In her painting ‘Self-portrait with monkeys’ she places four monkeys directly around herself, all with tender expression. Two of the monkeys have their paws over her heart. We may be able to interpret this as her desire for love, not lust. She is expressing heartache and a desire for a single commitment of love, most probably from Diego, as this was painted during her second marriage to the artist.

Self-Portrait with Monkeys, 1943. Oil on canvas, 81.5 x 63 cm, Jacques and Natasha Gelman Collection, Mexico City

Whilst perhaps it is a good thing that not all scorned, lovesick, hurting women are artists, or have the ability to pen songs – hello, Taylor Swift – (the world would be left reeling at the amount of pent up angst unleashed!), I for one am grateful for the artistic talents of Frida Kahlo. Her honesty is touching, her emotions relatable, and her story compelling. I read it as inspirational that the solitary pain of one woman has the potential ability to affect and heal the lives of others; through her art, it is possible to understand and come to terms with the realms of human emotion.

For a closer look at the turbulent life of Kahlo and Rivera in painting, Canadians rejoice! The Art Gallery of Ontario, Toronto is hosting an exhibition of their works, as well as several photographs of the couple, from the 20^th October 2012 – 20^th January 2013. As well as showing their lives together, these combined works also reflect the couple’s interest in the changing values of post-revolutionary Mexico. For those living a little too far away from the Canadian border, these paintings can also be found in the works by Gerry Souter: Frida Kahlo and Rivera.

Francisco de Goya: 18^th Century Spanish bad boy? Overlooked Political Commentator? A sufferer for his art? Yes, yes, and yes. Goya is all of the above.

Ok, let’s start with the ‘Bad Boy’ charge. This aspect of his personality may be tracked back to his time studying under a master popular with Spanish Royalty of the time. It’s fair to say that he and his teacher didn’t exactly see eye to eye, which resulted in his receiving poor results in his examinations. Later on, he experienced further disappointment when he submitted entries to the Royal Academy of Fine Arts in San Fernando. These were rejected, not once, but twice, in 1763 and 1766. His ensuing fame and popularity could perhaps be taken as a lesson for rejected X-Factor auditionees… or anyone really who has been rejected/rebuffed/had the door slammed in their face. It can still happen!

The Family of Charles IV, 1800, oil on canvas, 280 x 336 cm, Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid

However, this initial period of rejection and disappointment shaped Goya, I believe, to be very independent and perhaps outspoken. Exhibit A: the very daring portrait of Charles IV of Spain and his family. Daring, not in the sense that it was risqué, but rather that it was very politically indiscreet. Art historians today believe that this is an extremely satirical work, as it is thought that this particular portrait was intended to reveal the corruption of the country under the rule of Charles IV. Rumours have abounded that, during his reign, it was actually Charles’ wife Louisa who held the real power. Goya’s portrait seems to confirm this, as he centres Louisa in the middle of the group portrait, instead of the norm of focusing on the King. Such flagrant disregard for rules and etiquette was no doubt intentional, and almost certainly provided some amusement to those dissatisfied with the monarchy of the time.

As for suffering for his art, Francisco de Goya suffered acute hearing loss – and in fact became fully deaf – during the period of 1792-1793. There is much speculation surrounding the reason for this, some say that it was due to a series of small strokes, and others blame the lead in the pigments he used – saying that it poisoned him and caused his deafness. Whatever the reason, it is true that Goya’s temperament changed, and his work became a lot darker. We can date ‘Yard With Lunatics’ to around 1794, directly after he began to experience his deafness, and the difference in the work and the themes are striking. No longer satirical or politically motivated, the work takes on a bleaker atmosphere, channelling the introspective feelings of fear and social alienation of the artist himself. Despite his growing sense of isolation, Goya continued to produce several important masterpieces, including the ‘Black Paintings’ series.

Yard with Lunatics, 1793-1794, oil on canvas, 43.8 x 32.7 cm, Meadows Museum, Dallas, Texas

So, key lessons to be learnt here: if at first you don’t succeed, try try again. If you do succeed, don’t be afraid of saying what you believe…even if it isn’t popular with the Royal court. You never know, it could well survive and become a talking point centuries later. When met with adversity, face it head on – even if you are a bit more surly than usual, it’s ok, it’s good to express yourself. After all, you may end up like Goya and have a film award named after you (the Goya Awards anyone?). And last, but definitely not least, stay away from lead! Lead poisoning generally doesn’t bode well for anyone.

To discover a long line of Spanish artistic genius, you need go no further than the British Museum in London. The exhibition (from the 20th September 2012-6^th January 2013) focuses on the Renaissance to Goya, so why not discover the inspiration that is Diego Velazquez; an inspiration for artists everywhere, including Francisco de Goya. Take in the changing Spanish style, from Vicente Carduchio to José de Ribera. Discover the thematic differences in the prints and drawings over two centuries. Alternatively, check out ‘Goya’ in Mega Square, written by Jp. A. Calosse.

Bear with me here. The Baroque movement is a combination of beauty and grotesque; high drama with intense focus on every element. It started under the influence of the Roman Catholic Church in Italy during the 1600s. A century later, during the late 1720s in France, Rococo was invented – was this a backhanded attempt at a war between the Romance languages and arts?

Meant to create imagery for those unable to read, Baroque set out to be a symbol of unity among the masses. In light of the most recent events in the US, a country that claims to want unity while ceaselessly coming up short, I can’t help but connect the two concepts. Actually, I probably very well could and should help it, but where’s the fun in that?

Peter Paul Rubens, The Rape of the Daughters of Leucippus, 1617/1618.
Oil on canvas, 224 x 210.5 cm.
Alte Pinakothek, Munich.

In my experience and observation of many citizens of the United States, Baroque is the furthest comparable movement to the way politics are viewed in this large and (once) globally influential country. The atmosphere is more in line with the Rococo style – flowery, jocular, and exhibiting blind faith in what comes out of the talking heads’ mouths. A citizen deeply entrenched in the Baroque-ness of the political scene knows each argument, from all sides, down to the most minute details. This citizen can make informed and intellectual decisions that may ultimately affect his/her whole country and the future.

Guido Reni, The Massacre of the Innocents, 1611/1612.
Oil on canvas, 268 x 170 cm.
Pinacoteca Nazionale di Bologna, Bologna.

The “Rococoans” (self-invented), those that follow the crowd and do as they are told – whether it’s their televisions, parents, friends, or spouses – are at a great risk of being forgotten, much in the same way that I feel the artistic movement hardly existed despite its strong push to overtake Baroque. Trying to make everyone happy for the sake of happiness is not the answer; to quote my favourite comedian: “Everything is amazing and nobody is happy.” (Louis C.K.)

Interestingly, Baroque is actually considered to be politically focused – grandiose, symmetrical, and strictly regulated. And I’ve said all of this to say: pay attention to the details, in art, in politics, in life. Ready? Go!

It’s easy to get lost in the details of life, but try and avoid that here – enjoy them, but also take a step back and see the whole image. Visit the Art Gallery of Alberta now through 6 January 2013 to see modern (and probably not political) Baroque art at its best: Misled by Nature: Contemporary Art and the Baroque. Don’t forget to appreciate the origins of Baroque in this colourfully illustrated ebook:Baroque Art by Victoria Charles and Klaus H. Carl.

-Le Lorrain Andrews

Edward Hopper, the man of many movements.  Whether it be romanticism, realism, symbolism, or formalism, Hopper has covered them all.  I am not going to analyse which oeuvre he was best suited to, nor to which he owes the most allegiance.  Instead I am going to try and find the man behind the paintings….

Ok, let’s fast-forward Hopper’s life a little… and hello Josephine!  A fellow artist and former student of Robert Henri (a past teacher of Hopper’s), Josephine Nivison was ‘The One’.  She was the Simon to Hopper’s Garfunkel, or the Kate to Hopper’s Wills if you want to be a little more current.  Model, Manager, Life-Companion, she truly supported her husband (publicly) in every way, which can be seen in the numerous paintings in which Hopper uses her to model various characters and figures.

Hopper has been pigeon-holed several times, from being the illustrator of the all-American way of life (Four Lane Road) to the more complex, dark, detached painter of the more sinister ‘Nighthawks’.  However, when asked about his paintings and his particular style of painting, he was noted to reply: “The whole answer is there on the canvas.”

Four Lane Road, 1956. Oil on canvas, 68.6 x 104.1 cm. Private collection.

If I can refer you to another statement made by Hopper, we can look at this further:

“So much of every art is an expression of the subconscious that it seems to me most of all the important qualities are put there unconsciously, and little of importance by the conscious intellect.”

He moves us here away from the subconscious of the audience but, instead, to that of its creator – the painter himself.  Such being the case, Hopper’s choices and preferences for light and dark are filled with new meaning.  If you have a look at one of his more well-known works, ‘Nighthawks’, the dark palette of the street scene combined with the shadows of the well-lit interior presents a  sinister tone.  No longer do the figures within the diner possess a careless, lonely air, but rather, they become more predatory in appearance. We, as the audience, cannot tell whether Hopper identifies with one of the inner characters, one of the predators, or instead with us, the viewer – always on the outside, looking in.

Nighthawks, 1942. Oil on canvas, 84.1 x 152.4 cm. The Art Institute of Chicago, Chicago.

Indeed, this seems to be a recurrent theme with Hopper.  The audience of his work is often treated to the image of a solitary figure, either through a window, or in a state of undress, to which we then have the impression of being voyeurs.  The figure (or figures) in the painting is often portrayed as being unaware of the artist/audience.  As an example, take a look at ‘Morning in a City’, as modelled by Hopper’s wife Jo. The idea of voyeurism continues.  But, with the question of the subconscious ever present, we may start to wonder at this being Hopper’s go-to perspective.  Does this mean that Hopper himself feels voyeuristic in painting, or is this a reflection of his feelings when he was amongst his peers in society; that he was on the edge, forever looking in?

We can but guess.

Morning in a City, 1944. Oil on canvas, 112.5 x 152 cm. Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, Massachusetts.

So, the mystery of Edward Hopper will have to go a little longer with being unanswered I think.  However, one thing we do know for certain is the regard that he bore his wife Josephine.  As I have previously mentioned, she was with Hopper for nearly every step of the way; his painting career, his public career, his life!  Although perhaps not the most tranquil of marriages (perusal of her private diaries would no doubt lead many stable couples to run screaming ‘divorce! divorce!’ down the streets), it is all the more touching to view Hopper’s final work, ‘Two Comedians’.  It shows two actors on the stage of a theatre, taking their last bow.  This is increasingly more poignant due to Hopper’s life-long love of the theatre, and upon closer inspection of the figures, we can see that the models are Hopper and Josephine themselves. After Hopper’s death in 1967 (1 year after the completion of ‘Two Comedians’), Josephine confirmed the suspicions of many, that her husband had intended it to portray the end of their life together.

In the end, this is the story that will stay with me from Hopper’s paintings.  Outsider or keen observer, it doesn’t matter, what remains in his work is the love story he wrote together with his wife.  Tumultuous and stormy maybe, but it is a love story that remains unending.

Two Comedians, 1965. Oil on canvas, 73.7 x 101.6 cm. Collection Mr and Mrs Frank Sinatra.

Venturing to the Grand Palais in Paris between the 10 October 2012 and 28 January 2013 will afford you the chance to catch up with the iconic painter that is Edward Hopper.  Discover the early and the mature works of one of America’s finest painters.  See for yourselves where his mastery truly lies; with the lighter style of the Impressionists, or with the darker palette of his Rembrandt-fascination. Discover, if you will, his life with Jo, as depicted in his art.  Alternatively, feel free to peruse at length ‘Edward Hopper’, written by Gerry Souter.

Ok, let’s talk about the bizarre.

Not the bizarre fascination so many people seem to have with reality shows… TOWIE, My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding anyone?  Nor am I talking about the bizarre and scary world which has created the ‘Honey Boo Boo’ phenomenon.  Even the Blobfish and the Aye-Aye lose their bizarreness factor when compared to what I’m going to be talking about! (You may want to Google Blobfish and Aye-Aye, just so you get an idea how bizarre this is going to get…)

Ok, I think I’ve created enough suspense.  Today folks, allow me to introduce you to Hieronymus Bosch: artist extraordinaire, and possessor of one heck of an active imagination!  (Not to be confused with the fictive character of the same name featured in the Michael Connelly books!)

For those of you who may not be familiar with any of Bosch’s work, he created all kinds of mythological and mutant species within his artwork.  Some may be recognisable to us from myth and legend, whereas others are entirely figments of his astonishing imagination.  Many people have suggested, over the years, that Bosch was one of a series of artists suffering from hallucinations (attributed to ergot poisoning – caused by mould in grain), and so this was the source of his extraordinary characters.  Maybe, maybe not. The jury’s out.  But, take a look for yourselves:

The Last Judgement, triptych, c. 1450-1516

In one of Bosch’s works, The Last Judgement, we see a triptych of creation – God casting out the rebel angels, Eve being created from Adam’s rib, the serpent (in the shape of a woman…I’m going to go out on a limb and say that Bosch’s view was that Lilith was the serpent) giving the apple, the angel casting the unfortunate couple from the garden.   Then we have the Last Judgement.  Earth is rife with torments as humanity is shown with all of its sinful nature.  Jesus is above this, judging the souls.  Finally, on the right-hand side is Bosch’s interpretation of hell, where the wicked souls are punished and demons run rampant with giant fish and what appears to be different types of bird creations…I can see aspects of pelicans and penguins in there, and they happen to be wearing green coats.

Now that’s all well and good, but I’ve seen some of this ‘demons and hell’ creativeness before, in other forms.  What is new to me is the ‘Earth’ panel.  Virtually indistinguishable from the ‘Hell’ scenario, the colours and landscape blend together seamlessly.  And then you look closer.  To look at this canvas in person, try and get hold of a magnifying glass! On the computer, make good use of your ‘zoom’!

Perplexing figures of heads on feet, a turbaned head of a man attached to what looks like two spiked shields with a tail and clawed feet (on the top of the roof).

Close-up detail, middle panel, The Last Judgement

Now look to the bottom right-hand corner.  Is that a giant Swiss Army knife?  That’s what it looks like to me! Follow that line to the left, and you’ll come across the mutation of a hatching egg (on legs) with an arrow piercing it.  In between the egg and the Swiss Army knife is what appears to be a plague doctor (with a stork mask as was common in the period of the Black Death).

If this isn’t confusing enough, see if you can spot the other two eggs in this painting.  By their size, in proportion to the rest of the figures, they appear to be ostrich eggs, and are right next to what seems to be a Turkish man, complete with robes and turban.  What makes this especially interesting is that this figure seems to be the only one in the ‘Earth’ panel who is clothed (besides the demons), and then you look closer and see that this may not actually be a human after all – the bird claws acting as his feet give him away.

So, what is your verdict?  Was Bosch just another artist tripping on mouldy grain, or did he actually have a genius for imagining the bizarre and outlandish that few could hope to match (possibly with the exception of Tim Burton!)?

Undoubtedly one of the more inventive takes on dystopia that I’ve seen for quite some time, I would highly recommend anyone interested in investigating the fantastical to explore the ‘Fables of Flemish Landscapes, Bosch, Brueghel, Bles, Bril’ exhibition being held at the Palais des Beaux Arts  de Lille from 7^th October 2012 until the 14^th January 2013.  Myths and legends spring from the canvas in this remarkable collection of paintings, reality is exchanged for artistic license, and paradise and hell are created out of the fantasy one unexpectedly finds in the landscape genre.  If you want to brush up on your Bosch before visiting the exhibition, check out our e-book ‘Bosch’ by Virginia Pitts Rembert.  Alternatively, explore the full extent of dystopia in ‘Apocalypse’ by Camille Flammarion.

The Musée du Louvre has been in the process of refurbishing their Department of Islamic Art for nearly four years now – expanding to give works of art ranging from India to Spain more, and deserved, space. Reopening the department this month, pieces spanning from the 8^th through 19^th centuries will be back on display for the masses – it’s about time, guys!

Islamic, Central Asian, and Indian Art are all hugely underrepresented in western cultures. Many museums have one room with a few fantastic pieces devoted to entire eras of the eastern cultures. Which begs the question, should these pieces have even travelled outside of their home counties to places like Paris and New York in the first place? Do these pieces, in fact, belong “at home” where they can truly be appreciated by posterity?

Bowl and cover, c. 1220-1230 or late 13th-early 14th century, Khorasan, Iran. Hammered copper alloy, engraved and dulled decoration, silver and red copper inlays. Musée du Louvre, Paris.

Mudéjar-style plate, 1450, Valencia. Ceramic. Musée du Louvre, Paris.

From another point of view, it’s good these pieces have made their way to the west – people that have learned little about Eastern cultures are able to have their interests peaked; and vice versa, Western pieces should make their way into Eastern museums. However, to support my other argument, isn’t the west already, essentially, everywhere in the east? Aren’t young adults choosing different routes than those their parents would want for them based on what they’re seeing on television and in films?

I’ve argued myself in circles and I don’t know what’s right anymore. But until we sort it out, the Louvre has re-opened the doors to their Islamic Art Department and we should all make time to see it. Until my plane ticket arrives in the mail, I’m going to have a closer look at these colourfully illustrated ebooks Art of Islam and Art of India, as well as this Central Asian Art print.

-Le Lorrain Andrews

Vincent Van Gogh: A man of many talents…and many mysteries.  Here’s a small list of ‘did you know…?’:

• That he was a teacher?
• That he was a missionary?
• That he was a late-bloomer, artistically?  (He didn’t start painting until his late-twenties.)
• That he was an extremely dedicated worker…he produced around 2,100 artworks in about ten years.  That works out to 210 sketches/paintings/watercolours/doodles per year!  (If you happen to be in possession of any of them, you’d be guaranteed to be an owner of a valuable piece of art!)
• That he was named after his stillborn baby brother?
• That he suffered from mental illness…leading up to the supposed self-inflicted shooting?
• That after he shot himself, he was able to walk back to his hostel, and was left smoking a pipe by two physicians who told him they couldn’t remove the bullet?
• That he survived for 29 hours after he was shot?
• That there is a theory that somebody else shot him, because the gun was never found?

And, for the purposes of this article:
That he was a ‘the grass is always greener…’ sort of guy.

Japonaiserie: Flowering Plum Tree (after Hiroshige), Paris, 1887. Can you tell it’s a copy?

The Courtesan (after Eisen), Paris, 1887.

Allow me to explain.  For me, it’s usually: ‘I wish I was taller.  Then I’d be able to wear those shorts, that dress, yadayadayada.” You know what I mean, everybody has something they wish was different, or wish they had.  Van Gogh, or Vinnie to his friends, was no different.  But for him, the green-eyed monster appeared through an unlikely source: that of Japanese ukiyo-e wood block prints.  About the time that he was in Paris, Vinnie discovered this form of Japanese art, and fell in lust.  He collected hundreds of these prints, but collecting wasn’t enough.  He wanted to own this form of artwork, and create it himself.  So, Vinnie did the equivalent of what I do to make myself taller. (No, he didn’t buy a new pair of ultra-high stilettos.) He copied existing Japanese wood-prints!  Now, some people might want to throw the word ‘plagiarism’ around, some may want to commend him on his source of inspiration.  Whatever, I’m not judging.  I will say, that Vinnie’s three notable works in the ‘Japonisme’ style are incredibly detailed, bold and masterfully executed.  Of course they are – it’s Van Gogh!

Portrait of Père Tanguy, Paris, 1887. Look how many copies of ukiyo-e he has painted!

However, finding out that one of the greats was as susceptible to a bit of peer-envy as I myself can be, well, I just find that selfishly reassuring.

But, please, don’t just take my word for it!  If you want to get up close and personal with Van Gogh and his work, and sneakily compare his take on Japanese ukiyo-e with the real deal, I strongly recommend that you make a trip to the Pinacothèque de Paris.  The dual exhibition of ‘Van Gogh et le Japonisme’ is on display from 03 October 2012 to 17 March 2013.  If Paris isn’t your scene – or you simply would rather wait until springtime (although Frank Sinatra does then go on to sing about how he loves Paris in every season), then you may be interested in looking up Vincent Van Gogh, written by Victoria Charles. 

The 17^th century was a busy one. Full of territorial disputes around the world, English colonisation of the Americas, Japanese isolation, the fall of the Ming Dynasty in China… I could go on. But I won’t. More importantly, the world was (still) heavily focused on religious art, though many artists started to branch out and become a bit more narcissistic, here’s lookin’ at you Rembrandt and your many self-portraits.

Do you know what else came to be in the 17th century? Ice cream. You (probably) read it here first! No proper recipe for ice cream, though various other versions previously existed in Persia, China, and Italy for example, appeared until 1674 in France.

“Welcome back! Could we get a little creamed ice after this lovely meal, JC?” Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, Supper at Emmaus, 1601. Oil and tempera on canvas, 141 x 196.2 cm. The National Gallery, London.

Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Surely the invention of ice cream stirred a deeper belief in God and Jesus Christ – who or what else could inspire such a cold, creamy, delicious treat? Could it be that artists of the time were so overjoyed with appreciation that they could find no other way to express their praise except to paint on the canvasses closest to the Heavens at the time: ceilings?

“Bless you, child. Go forth and enjoy ice cream; but eat slowly or you will get a brain freeze.” El Greco, The Saviour, 1610-1614. Oil on canvas, mounted on wood, 100.4 x 80.2 cm. Museo del Greco, Toledo.

The Musée Carnavalet is exhibiting The Colours of Heaven now through 24 February 2013, a collection of paintings, drawings, and engravings devoted to Paris’ many churches. Don’t worry; you won’t have to crane your neck to look upwards too much. And if you’d like to see more religious devotion, check out the beautifully illustrated ebook, Christ in Art by Ernest Renan.

-Le Lorrain Andrews

When I think of the relationship between Russia and Germany the first thing that comes to mind is Carrie and Mr Big or maybe Ross and Rachel for those of you that never dug into Sex and the City – in which case, shame on you. The on-again, off-again saga of their affairs is almost too much for the common person to handle.

They’re on – they’re politicking together and mutually militaristic; Russia is sharing her energy sources because of her dependence on Germany’s finances. If that’s not a relationship, I don’t know what is! And then Leo von Caprivi had to go and cut Russia out, ruining the three-way alliance with Austria. Certainly, they were on a break!

Albrect Dürer, Portrait of a Young Woman, 1505. Oil on wood, 26 x 35 cm. Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.

They’re off – they’re warring against each other in WWI, ending with Germany helping to send in the dogs – rather Vladimir Lenin.

Shortly thereafter, they are back on due to social stigmatisation from the rest of the world, which is quickly ruined with Germany’s anti-Communist, anti-Slav rhetoric and Hitler’s invasion of the Eastern Front – leading to the bloodiest conflict in history. I think we can all agree Germany wasn’t the nicest kid on the block during this time.

Max Beckmann, Self-Portrait with a Scarf, 1917. Oil on canvas, 80 x 60 cm. Staatsgalerie Stuttgart, Stuttgart.

Slowly the two realised they had more in common than not after the fall of the Wall and Socialism. They’ve managed to remain amicable over the past 30 years – not discussing their differences, but revelling in their similarities.

It is in their similarities that we are able to see marks of Russia in Germany’s art, history, and culture, and vice-versa. Positive spurts and splashes of colour and light, sound and beauty, harmony between the two cultures. And isn’t that all the world needs right now? Harmony amongst the masses, a sharing of art and culture?

Go see Russians & Germans. 1000 Years of Art, History and Culture, on at the Neues Museum, now through 13 January 2012, for the nuances of the tumultuous millennium-long love affair between these two fascinating countries. Also, keep an eye out for German Painting by Franz Dülberg for even better insight into their artistic relations.

-Le Lorrain Andrews

Gian Lorenzo Bernini, Fontana della Barcaccia. c. 1623. Marble. Piazza di Spagna, Rome, Italy

Rome is the city of light, certainly, but it is also the city of water. Tourists may visit for the city’s celebrated history and architecture, but they leave entranced by the babbling fountains which dot the city like stars. What most don’t realize is that most of those fountains were designed by the same man: the astoundingly talented Gian Lorenzo Bernini.

Immortalized in countless great works of cinema, from Frederico Felini’s La Dolce Vita to Woody Allen’s To Rome With Love, Bernini’s fountains are essential to the character of this most romantic of cities. His Fontana della Barcaccia on the Spanish Steps even provided the backdrop for Gregory Peck and Audry Hepburn to meet cute in Roman Holiday, and has been photographed by countless tourists attempting capture a uniquely Italian image. In many ways, modern Rome is the city Bernini built.

Still, as influential as he is today, Bernini’s path to artistic immortality was not smooth. In the seventeenth century when he was a young man he was quite a controversial figure, his artistic genius at times overshadowed by the scandals that surrounded him.

Gian Lorenzo Bernini, Self-Portrait as a Young Man. c. 1623. Oil on canvas, 62×46 cm. Galleria Borghese, Rome, Italy

Bernini was the darling of the art world from the age of eight, when Pope Paul V boasted that the child would be “The Michelangelo of his century.” And as he grew up, and his skills increased, so did his social success. Beloved by the wealthiest families in Italy, and a favourite of the church, Bernini led a charmed life. At least, until he met Constanza Buanerelli.

Constanza was the wife of Bernini’s assistant Matteo, a young and lovely woman whose freshness and charm immediately won over the artist. He was inspired by her sensuality, and she quickly became his muse, her post-coital rumple immortalized in stone in one of his most celebrated busts.

Gian Lorenzo Bernini, Bust of Constanza Buonarelli. c. 1635. Marble, 72 cm. Museo Nazionale del Bargello, Florence, Italy

Alas, their happiness was brief. Bernini was an extremely jealous lover, infuriated that he was forced to share Constanza with her husband. He repeatedly insulted the hapless Matteo to such a great extent that his affair with Constanza became a matter of common knowledge, and she was jailed for adultery. Protected by his powerful friends, Bernini himself got off scot free.

Constanza, tired of her lover’s covetousness, took her revenge by beginning an affair with his brother. Enraged, Bernini followed the pair to the steps of St. Peter’s basilica, the Pope’s seat of power, whose interior he had so masterfully designed years before. He beat his brother half to death with an iron rod, and bribed a servant to slash Constanza’s face with a razor, destroying the beauty that had once captivated him.

Pope Urban VIII used his power to get Bernini out of trouble, even excusing the 3000 scudi fee the court leveled against him. But the pope was tired of helping the bad boy artist out of romantic scrapes, and this time his help came with a price. He forced Bernini to marry a virtuous woman of the church’s choosing, a union that was by all accounts a happy one, lasting decades and producing eleven children.

Still, Bernini never sculpted his wife. Maybe he had learned his lesson with Constanza, his great love and his muse, whose faithless beauty he so fatally immortalized.

Those of you lucky enough to be in New York should make sure to check out Bernini: Sculpting in Clay at the world famous Metropolitan Museum of Art from October 3, 2012 to January 6, 2013. Or to follow along at home, and get critical insight into Bernini’s controversial life and work, check out our ebooks on Sculpture and Baroque Art, both written by celebrated art historian Victoria Charles.

-George Kostrowitzky