Nouvelle Cuisine

Food artist, Paul Bocuse

One of the staple subjects of still-lifes from about as far back as still-lifes go (at least to the Renaissance), has been food. We've all seen and grown tired of the traditional bowl of fruit, that amateur artists today still find a respectable challenge without the intimidation found in many more complex subjects. The thinking seems to be, if it was good enough for Cezanne, it's good enough for me. Growing tired of fruit, artists long ago moved on to vegetables, followed by meats and game (some cooked, some raw, some just merely dead). This favorite still-life subject probably sparked the old phrase, "Looks good enough to eat." However, in the 1970s, Paul Bocuse gave a whole new meaning to that phrase with his still-lifes which were meant to be eaten.

A Bocuse still-life work of art

Bocuse coined the term, "Nouvelle Cuisine" (basically just "new cooking,") to stand for a whole new way of looking and thinking of food. Bocuse wasn't a painter, he was a chef, but there were elements of both painting and sculpture in his art. In the kitchen, portions became smaller, sauces became lighter, herbs and spices were carefully tested to tweak old recipes, bringing out new flavors and aromas. But there was a difference in the dining room as well. Starting with just the right plate to serve as a sort of "canvas," food was presented with careful consideration to it's size, shape, color, and texture, basically all the elements of design in painting, but now applied to the creation of a still-life meant to be eaten, and according to some, to pretty to be consumed. The dishes were presented with all the aesthetic attention to arrangement and composition a painter might envy.

A window display featuring noodles of various nationalities--all plastic

In fact, Nouvelle Cuisine, apart from being sort of an art in itself, actually inspired yet another art, that of photographing foods for the glossy gourmet food magazines sold beside the tabloids on the check-out lines of supermarkets. Photographers even began to specialize in the highly technical art. They quickly discovered that some foods simply don't photograph well, or can't stand up to the heat of studio lights. (Imagine, for instance, trying to photograph an ice cream confection.) In due time, substitutions were found (lard came to be used for ice cream) and eventually, there evolved yet another art form, the development of fake, plastic food that not only photographed well, but could set in a restaurant showcase and look pretty (and delectable) for months on end with only an occasional dusting. The movement had come in full circle, from painted food still-lifes, to the real thing, and then back to still-lifes imitating the real thing in plastic. And the one thing they all have in common is they still look "good enough to eat."

New Masterpieces

I suppose it's almost a given fact that all of us have seen dirty pictures at one time or another.  How would you like to get paid to look at dirty pictures? BIG BUCKS! Actually what you get paid for is cleaning them up. Okay, I'm not talking about pornography here now. I'm talking about the lonely life of an art restoration technician. It's tedious; it's time-consuming; and it's a solitary existence--hours spent totally immersed in the artwork of some great master--nose just inches from the canvas, perhaps viewing your work through binocular magnifying glasses, daubing away with Q-tips and solvent, delicately trying to remove centuries of dirt and varnish to reveal the beauty that gradually faded from view generations ago. Often the restoration work takes longer than it did the artist to create the painting in the first place. And sometimes, more than just revitalized beauty awaits the eyes of those paying the thousands, sometimes millions of dollars to have their artwork restored.

Landscape with Bacchus and Ceres, 1624-27,
Nicolas Poussin

Recently the owners of a painting titled Landscape With Arcadian Shepherds had it pulled from the vault of the Walker Art Gallery in Liverpool England to be restored. A year later, they found themselves the proud owners of a Poussin! Nicholas Poussin (pronounced Pu-SAN) was a French artist born in 1594, famous for his classical subject matter and landscapes, but most importantly his careful attention to draftsmanship in his work. This painting, re-titled Landscape with Bacchus and Ceres, (once it was clean enough to actually discern the subject matter) was painted between 1624 and 1627 during a period of time when the artist was trying to establish his reputation in Rome. It's an important work because it came at a time when the artist was struggling to find himself and find commissions through the production of a wide variety of styles and subject matter.

Having previously been deemed by the Queen's art expert, Sir Anthony Blunt, to be too crude to be the work of Poussin, the owners quickly found themselves not only bearing the high cost of the restoration work, but that of a hefty, multi-million-dollar insurance policy as well. The painting is a typical Poussin, bucolic landscape with nude or barely clothed male and female figures frolicking together in an erotic idyll thinly cloaked in mythological respectability. In short, it was a highly salable piece of artwork catering to the secular (male) tastes of the time. Even then, Poussin was astutely aware that "sex sells." He went on to produce and sell dozens of such paintings. What makes this work so important is that it could be considered a prototype for the kind of work that was to influence the primacy-of-drawing faction (Poussinistes) of French painting for generations to come. The painting is no longer literally a dirty picture, though the newly revealed subject matter might not have been far removed from that almost four hundred years ago when it was painted.

A "New" Giotto

One of the difficulties with oil paints, especially old oil paints is that they don't last forever. They crack and even chip off.  Sometimes, when they do, startling discoveries are made. That was the case with the privately owned Madonna della Minerva (no photo available), a Madonna and Child done on a wooden panel about 1300. Records showed that the figures had been repainted as early as the 1400s with the gold leaf background restored sometime in the 1500s and then the whole thing repainted in oils sometime in the 1600s. Needless to say, by 1993, it was starting to need repainting again. It was then art archivists got hold of it and began to peel their way down through the dirt and the layers of paint to what they discovered was, in fact a fresco--a thin layer of plaster into which pigment had been embedded.

Santa Maria sopra Minerva in Rome, with its 19th century
facade and Bernini's famous elephant obilisk, is just around the
corner from Rome's famous Pantheon. It was here, in the Altieri
 Chapel, that Giotto's fresco originally found a home.

Fascinated, the owner ordered it restored, only to find yet another surprise.  It was by Giotto. Further research revealed it was painted originally for the altar of Rome's Altieri Chapel in Santa Maria sopra Minerva. The work has a genuinely Byzantine-Medieval appearance, yet the three-dimensionality of the figures clearly mark it as having come from the brush of Giotto during one of his frequent sojourns to Rome in the years shortly after finishing the Assisi Frescos. Giotto is known to have been to Rome several times during the period of the pontificate of Boniface VIII (1294-1303), not so much to paint but to study painting, especially the work of the ancient Roman artists, particular that of Pietro Cavallini. This particular painting is thought to be one of only two or three surviving works of Giotto from this period.

Navicella Mosaic, 1298, Giotto
(reconstruction)

The Roman art Giotto went to study, included the huge Navicella mosaic which at that time adorned the wall over the atrium side of the main entrance to the original St. Peter's basilica. This modest-sized church was ordered built by Constantine, the fourth Christian Roman emperor in 315 A.D. Finished in 350 A.D., it was situated over the tomb of St. Peter. The present St. Peter's Cathedral was literally built around and over it. The brick and timber edifice was not completely torn down until the present structure was well underway. It is believed that some of Giotto's work (along with dozens of other Medieval paintings and mosaics) were destroyed in the process. Of Giotto's work, only the Stephaneschi altarpiece and less than five square feet of the Navicella mosaic (by an unknown artist) were saved from old St. Peter's.

The Romanesque Old St, Peter's Basilica, Rome, 333-1550 (from a 15th century print).
The obilisk at left marked the original Circus of Nero. Today it resides as the
centerpiece of St. Peter's Square. The boxlike structure directly to the right of the
basilica is the Sistine Chapel.

Plan with overlays indicating the relative positions of the Circus of Nero, old St. Peter's,
and the present day St. Peter's Basillica

Neo-Pasticism and Purism

The Die is Cast,
1938,
Le Corbusier

Some time ago, in expounding on the multitude of "isms" in 20th century art, I mentioned a couple I doubt many people are familiar with. In many ways they are similar but at the same time, they also have one major difference. I'm referring to Neo-Pasticism and Purism. Both art movements came during the years between the two world wars and to some extent, were reactions on the part of their founders to the irrationality and chaos of "the war to end all wars."  Both movements sought to impose upon art a sense of careful, compositional, and chromatic order. Neo Plasticism was the brainchild of Piet Mondrian. Purism, that of Amedee Ozenfant, and Charles-Edouard Jeanneret who later called himself Le Corbusier (pronounced Lay Cor-BOO-see-ay). Today, Corbusier, rather than his painting, we are most familiar with his architectural work employing many of the principals of Purism.

Guitar and Bottles, 1920, Amedee Ozenfont

The Purism Manifesto, Apres le Cubisme was published in 1918. It proclaimed the great human pleasure in organizing things and being a part of that organization. Nearly all of their paintings were still-lifes and nearly all of them depicted clearly delineated everyday objects, arranged with a "grammar of sensibility" celebrating simplified forms and standard, time-tested compositional devices and unity. Purism was the antithesis of accidental or emotional art, favoring instead the synthesis of line, planes, shapes and color first coming from Picasso's and Braque's Synthetic Cubism, but drawing back from the near total disintegration of recognizable content which had evolved from Cubism. With the Purism movement came the magazine, L'Espirit Nouveau, published until 1925.  It became a standard bearer for Avant-garde art, and probably did more to promote the broader modern art movement than any of the rather cold, dry Purism paintings depicted on its pages.

Composition in Red, Blue, and
Yellow, 1930, Piet Mondrian

As for Neo-Plasticism, merely mentioning the name of Piet Mondrian probably says more in describing the painting of this movement than any long, descriptive discourse on individual works. One could basically say it was a more extreme version of Purism. The most obvious difference was the total renunciation of recognizable subject matter. It was an austere exploration of design elements to the exclusion of all else. Mondrian's extended discourse Neo-Pasticism in Painting (plus three other manifestos on the subject) hit the newsstands about the same time as Purism's mouthpiece magazine and manifesto. Artists such as van Doesburg, Severini, Lissitzky, and Arp teamed with the Bauhaus school, hoping to see adopted a universal language of art, and its integration into every aspect of daily life. The movement worked (with considerable success) to influence everything from painting to architecture, furniture design, interior design, consumer products, advertising, and even urban planning. It was Utopian. It was socialistic, and it had a strong influence in Germany. And ironically, though it collapsed in disarray amidst the turmoil of Hitler and the Second World War, it was not without influence among the Utopian planners of the Third Reich.

Nature Run Amok

Pastoral Landscape, 1677, Claude Lorrain

When someone refers to painting nature, our first inclination is to think of a landscape. And indeed, the first studies of nature were in the realm of the ideal, Arcadian meadows with idealized streams, picturesque trees, flocks, maybe a few shepherds, all carefully balanced to soothe the senses and instill a feeling of gentle, secure, loveliness. The painters, Jacob van Ruisdael and Claude Lorrain (left) come to mind. But those who live near the sea, towering mountains, active volcanoes, or great rivers, know that nature is not always so docile. As the early19th century progressed and the Romantic era of painting, music, and literature developed, it was the heroic, demonic, or dramatic violence of nature's extremes that began to capture the imagination of artists of the time.

Satan Calling to Beelzebub over a
Sea of Fire, 1802, Henry Fuseli

In England there was J.M.W. Turner exploring the land, the sea, and the forces of nature illuminated by a sort of heroic, eternal light. At about the same time, Henry Fuseli, William Blake, James Barry, and John Martin were probing the more sinister nature of these forces, using them to demonstrate the dreaded depths of men's souls, their nightmares, and their psyches. Fuseli's Satan Calling to Beelzebub over a Sea of Fire (right), painted in 1802 is a good example of this type of painting. Blake chose to explore the element of divine planning and intervention in these elements of nature, while James Barry tried to delve into nightmares, using the chaos of nature at its worst to give shape to man's worst fears and frustrations. And John Martin demonstrated the forces of nature by painting biblical and oriental themes such as his 1812 canvas, Sadak Searching for the Waters of Oblivion (below, left), or The Fall of Babylon painted in 1819, both based on Persian legends.

Sadak Searching for the Waters of
Oblivion, 1812, John Martin

The Last Days of Pompeii, 1830-33,
Karl Pavlovitch Brullov

Perhaps the most incredible painting of this type however, was Karl Pavlovitch Brullov's horrifying Last Days of Pompeii (above, right), painted over the course of three years from 1830 to 1833. Now hanging in the Russian State Museum in St. Petersburg, it's an enormous canvas, bringing to mind some of this century's great disaster movies, replete with a seeming cast of thousands and special effects to boggle the mind. The sky is black, the scene illuminated only by Vesuvius itself as the mountain reigns death and destruction of cataclysmic proportions upon the hapless Roman men, women, and children fleeing before its vengeful wrath. There is a supernatural quality on an apocalyptic scale to most if not all these paintings which are as far removed from tranquil Arcadian landscapes as Poussin's  chaotic Rape of the Sabines (below, left) is from David's noble Oath of the Horatii (below, right). And the comparison of nature's turmoil to that of man is most apt, as if man were, at times, trying to imitate nature's turbulence in his own affairs.

The Rape of the Sabines,
1637-38, Nicholas Poussin

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

Nadar

Nadar Self-Portraits, 1865

As artists today, many of us would be "lost" without photos to work from. Some of us have learned to use them and rely on them more than others, but I would guess just about every painter today has used them at some point in time. Ever wonder what artist was the first to use photos in his work? Of course it's hard to say for sure, but a likely candidate would be Gaspar-Felix Tournachon. You don't want to know how to pronounce that because he went by the name Nadar (pronounced Na-DAR) most of his life. He was born in 1820, and inasmuch as photography, for all intents and purposes, took its bow about 1840, his use of it around 1850 in doing a series of 270 caricatures of famous Parisians certainly puts him on or near the ground floor as the new medium took off (at least insofar as art is concerned). Nadar published his drawings in a magazine called Pantheon, which was so popular he put out a second edition the following year.

So fascinated was Nadar by the potentialities of this new medium he decided to give up drawing and let the camera do the work for him. In 1854, he opened a photo studio specializing in portraits using the Collodion wet plate process. (Yes, the glass photographic plate was put into the back of the camera wet.) Because of the limited amount of natural light his makeshift studio afforded, he tended toward a very high-contrast style, using a single light source on one side of the face, allowing the range of flesh tones to run from white, through all the shades of gray, to black. It was not only very dramatic, but allowed for an impressive degree of modeling of the various facial planes (as can be seen in the self-portraits, top left). Nadar was so successful that by 1860, he was able to move to a building specially designed as a photography studio/gallery. It was there that many of the first Impressionist art exhibits were held (below, left).

Nadar's Paris Studio-Gallery,
1864

Nadar Elevating the Photograph to
High Art, 1863, Honore Daumier

Nadar was an odd sort. He was a swarthy, heavy, bearded, bear of a man, drawn to social, literary, and artistic events; ironic, sharply observant, and intensely critical. He was an adventurous showman, pioneering the use of hot-air balloons to take aerial photos of Paris (below, left). And, apparently not satisfied with hot-air balloons, he even went so far as to try building a steam-powered helicopter. Perhaps as a result of having struggled for several years with inadequate natural light, Nadar was among the first photographers to welcome the use of electric, artificial light in shooting his subjects. He demonstrated in some rather bizarre ways the usefulness of his primitive artificial light sources. Going from aerial photography, he took his lights and cameras to subterranean locales (below, right). If not waking the dead in the catacombs of Rome, he no doubt startled the rats a little when he shot photos in the sewers of Paris.

As the Daumier cartoon (above, right)
 proclaims, Nadar took photography to new
heights, but also to new depths, revealing
a Paris few (human) Parisians had ever seen
before (ca. 1900).

Aerial View of Paris, 1868,
Nadar, featuring the Arc de Triomphe

Moving Up in the World

A successful artist from the 15th through the 18th
centuries might have lived and worked in a house
not unlike this one in Kent, England.

In the world today, most successful artists are what we would term "upper middle-class." A few "stars" are probably well above that. Two-hundred years ago, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, even a successful artist tended to live very modest existence in what we would call lower-class neighborhoods. Most supported a family of five or more in two or three rooms over the "store" so to speak, eking out a living as best they could doing whatever they could. Even a successful portrait painter would find himself also painting signs for the local gentry or decorating furniture for the local cabinet maker just to make ends meet. And often, his "digs" were so crude he was forced to do his "important" work in the homes of his clients. The status of the painter in society may have moved up somewhat from the just-another-craftsman level of pre-Renaissance times, but economically they were usually pretty much among the downtrodden.

              Frederic Lord Leighton's Arab vestibule

One thing changed all that--national art academies. Once official, state-sanctioned and supported art academies became prominent, those who successfully exhibited in their salons began to milk the prestige for all it was worth. This was especially the case in London and Paris. By mid-century, so-called "Academic Artists" were quite upwardly mobile. London's Lord Leighton had a mansion in fashionable Holland Park designed by the prominent English architect, George Aitchison, with an exotic Arab vestibule (above, right); while Randolph Caldecott's home featured a Moorish-style studio with rich Persian tiles and a mosaic fountain. Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema's home had two studios, one in a Pompeiian style for himself and a second, decorated in heavy German paneling for his wife (his painting, A Favourite Custom, is below, right). In Paris, Ernest Meissonier had built for himself a luxurious Neo-Renaissance palace. For all their straight-jacketing, stratifying, decadent ills, the national art academies had the effect of lifting the status of their artist to undreamed-of heights within just a few decades.

A favourite Custom, 1909,
Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema,
any excuse for a female nude
(preferably as many as possible)

And what did these Academic artist trade for their new found prosperity? Some might say, quite literally their souls. Prizes in a Salon show often brought Royal patronage, but such patronage was limited to grandiose portraits, propagandizing history painting, sanitized mythological works, and religious works so vapid that they would today be considered Sunday School illustrations. Above all there would be female nudes, dozens of them sometimes in the same painting. By the end of the century, the Pompiers (as thet came to be called) had very nearly elevated such work to a cult status. Any story, religious, allegorical, or mythological scene that could in any way logically contain a female nude was pounced upon like dogs on a bone, then played to the hilt. But always it had to be of high moral character. In 1878, for example, the Academic painter, Henri Gervex, painted a scene from the poem Rolla by Alfred de Musset in which Gervex depicted Maria, a young prostitute, lying out naked on her bed, her clothes in a pile beside her while at a window, Rolla, a dashing but desperate bon vivant, contemplates suicide (bottom). Even for an Academic show in which there were more nudes than clothed figures, this was too much. The painting was banned for its moral deprivation. Gervex, though an "academically correct" artist, had gone too far.

                        Rolla, 1878, Henri Gervex, a nude too far