Art incites great passion. Individual artworks are adored and people become devoted to particular artists. On the flip-side, however, this strength of feeling can equally well be a negative one- many pieces of art are passionately hated.
This hatred and anger often prompts the destruction of artworks, in protest at what they represent. When a leader is overthrown, we often see news footage of their statues being toppled. In 1776, George Washington’s troops actually used a statue of King George III as a weapon- melting the lead to make thousands of bullets to fire at the British. In a more personal protest, in the 1600s Royalist Prince Frederick Duleep Singh, who had a great parlour filled with portraits of the royal family, hung a portrait of Oliver Cromwell upside down amongst them. After his death it was given to Inverness Art Gallery, where it has been hung upside-down ever since.
Madonna and Child c.1475–90
Winchester Cathedral
Photo © Dr John Crook
Although nowadays we are more likely to hear of members of the public running amok in public galleries, 500 years ago it was the English authorities who were destroying the people’s art, rather than trying to protect it. During the Reformation and after, the King’s men attacked and demolished religious art, fearing the people were worshiping it- so successfully that only around ten percent of British medieval art survives today.
Christ before Pilate, unknown painter, c. 1400- 1425. Egg tempera on panel, 29.8 x 33 cm. Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge.
In the early 1900s, attacking artworks became a favoured method of protest for the Suffragettes in their demands for the vote for women. They targeted numerous British paintings during 1913-1914, choosing idealised and adored images of women by male artists, in protest at the contrasting, terrible treatment that many real women received.
These angry ladies’ methods clearly hit a nerve, since gallery directors considered banning women from their establishments. Destroying artworks always prompts outrage and draws attention, making it an effective method for those wanting their voice to be heard. Artworks were still being targeted in the name of women’s rights in the 1980s, when Allen Jones’ Chair was damaged on International Women’s Day in 1986.
Allen Jones, Chair, 1969. Acrylic paint on glass fibre and resin with Perspex and leather, 77.5 x 57.1 x 99.1cm. Tate Modern, London.
This past year has seen a resurgent spate of attacks on art in Britain, as a Rothko was targeted at the Tate and the campaign group Fathers4Justice has followed the example of the Suffragettes and called for independent acts of protest. Both a Constable painting and a recent portrait of the Queen have been defaced with the word ‘help’ in the capital in recent months.
So is this use of violence against art ever justifiable? Are the artworks just innocent pawns in political games, or do their messages make them a legitimate target? A new exhibition at Tate Britain is the first to explore the history of physical attacks on art in Britain, and looks too at the way many artists are now using violence as a creative force. Check out Art under Attack: Histories of British Iconoclasm until 5 January 2014. Or if you want to read more about religious art, have a look at Ernest Renan’s Christ in Art or Nikodim Pavlovich’s Icons.
G.A.
Felix Vallotton tried his hand in many art forms, ranging from landscapes to woodcuts to printmaking. While he is probably most celebrated for his nudes, his woodcuts speak more to his talent as an artist.
In his paintings, his palette choice, technique, and subjects (usually naked women) manage to capture the attention on any onlooker. But his woodcuts contain a richer and more mysterious meaning.
The woodcut entitled Money (below) presents a scene between a man shrouded in darkness and a woman, whose white dress lends her an air of innocence. While at first I considered the man to be a predator and the woman to be a helpless victim of his advances, the title eventually convinced me that the woman probably plays a greater role than she first suggests. Rather an innocent, damsel in distress, could she instead be money-hungry prostitute luring her next client through cold demeanour?
Felix Vallotton, Money, 1898
Woodcut
That is the beauty of Vallotton’s woodcuts. → Read more
Based on his numerous nudes, one can surmise that Félix Vallotton loved women – he loved their beauty, their coquetry, even their flaws. But his affection for women never went beyond the canvas.
Félix Vallotton, Woman with a Black Hat, 1908
Oil on canvas, 81 x 64.8 cm
The Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg.
“Everything thunders and smells of battle,” declared Félix Vallotton in July, 1914. War was engulfing Europe and even artists, so often pictured as absent-minded beings, isolated in their studios, were inevitably embroiled along with the rest of society. Vallotton felt compelled to contribute to the war effort but, at nearly 50 years of age, was dismissed as too old for army enrolment. So instead he turned to reflecting the war through his art. Or at least, he attempted to.
Félix Vallotton, The Anarchist, 1892. Woodcut. Private collection.
Growing up in the Jura region of Switzerland and then moving to late-19th century Paris, Vallotton had experienced his share of radical political environments. → Read more
Dreams are as commonplace as breathing, but as elusive as the air. Although practically everyone dreams on a nightly basis, very few people remember or understand their dreams.
Looking at paintings from the Renaissance, it is perceivable that the interpretation of dreams predates Freud. Many paintings portray people currently sleeping, suddenly waking up or being woken up, or dreaming.
The current exhibition at the Musee du Luxembourg focuses on the little discussed aspect of sleep and dreams in the art of the Renaissance. Painters such as Veronese and Hieronymus Bosch depicted their subjects’ dreams in several of their paintings. But while Veronese used dreaming as a state to reach religious clarity, Hieronymus instead depicted gruesome, nightmarish images that could make any person voluntarily become an insomniac.
Veronese, The Dream of Saint Helena, c. 1570.
Oil on canvas, 197.5 x 115.6 cm.
The National Gallery, London.
Hieronymus Bosch, Tondal’s Vision: The Temptation of Saint Anthony, c. 1500
Oil on panel, 131.5 x 119.
Museo Nacional de Arte Antiga, Lisbon.
Men create; women inspire. While men stand behind the easel painting masterpieces rich in beauty, women have simply stood in front to model. One woman, though, Artemisia Gentileschi traversed the barrier.
Rather than paint innocent and cheery little pictures, hers is a masterpiece of violence and revenge. Judith Slaying Holofernes depicts the Biblical scene in which Judith and her maidservant murder the General Holofernes in his sleep to save the Jewish people. Artemisia’s painting stands alone in the extreme portrayal of violence, seen in the anguished face of the general and in the vividness of the blood streaming down the white sheets.
Artemisia Gentileschi, Judith Slaying Holofernes, c. 1620.
Oil on canvas, 158.8 x 125.5 cm.
National Museum of Capodimonte, Naples
Art exhibits our fascinations and preoccupations- what we think about, are intrigued by, and want to look at. Ever since the earliest cave paintings, the human body has been a constant subject in art. We might all have one, but that doesn’t stop us from being interested in everyone else’s. But just because it’s natural doesn’t mean there aren’t rules. Society decided (or was it Adam and Eve?) that it just wasn’t on to go around showing off everything that God gave us. And so the fig leaves were slapped on the sculptures, Venus’ flowing locks doubled as a convenient pair of knickers and photographers learnt the art of strategic angles.
David Shrigley’s exhibit at the 2013 Turner prize show in Derry. (http://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2013/oct/22/turner-prize-2013-exhibition)
In his work for the 2013 Turner prize, David Shrigley is poking fun at all of that. → Read more
Rembrandt Harmensz. van Rijn, circa 1628
Oil on copper
8 3/4 x 6 3/4 in. Getty Centre, Los Angeles
‘You use a glass mirror to see your face; you use works of art to see your soul.’
George Bernard Shaw
The self portrait in its most potent form offers the viewer with a direct insight to an artist. On an superficial level we are granted a glimpse of the artist’s face. For the viewer it is interesting, exciting, and dynamic thing to be afforded this opportunity, as I believe it adds unconsciously to our perception of the artist. But why certain artists engage in this practise so frequently is a tricky one to answer. Is the self-portrait an exercise in convenience (no easier/cheaper model to arrange than yourself) or vanity?
Milan Kundera writes:
‘The serial number of a human specimen is the face, that accidental and unrepeatable combination of features. It reflects neither character nor soul, nor what we call the self.’
Immortality, 1988
With the self-portrait then perhaps it is the artist’s job then to arrange this ‘accidental and unrepeatable combination of features’ into a true expression of self. Using this, I’d like test the model against three artists generally perceived to be among the best self-portraitists: Rembrandt, Van Gogh and Frida Kahlo.
Left to Right: Rembrandt Van Rijn, Self Portrait, 1630. 15 x 12.2 cm. Nationalmuseum, Stockolm
Self Portrait, 1654. Oil on canvas, 72 x 58.5 cm. Staaliche Kunstsammlungen Kassel, Schloss Wilhelmshohe, Kassel
Self Portrait, 1642. Oil on wood, 69.9 x 58.4 cm. The Royal Collection, London
Self Portrait at the Age of 63, 1669. 86 x 70.5 cm. National Gallery, London
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